• 


I  DECIDED  I  WOULD  REFUSE  IT 


ANGELA'S  BUSINESS- 


BY 


HENRY  SYDNOR  HARRISON 


WITH  ILLUSTRATIONS  BY 
FREDERIC  R.  GRUGER 


BOSTON  AND  NEW  YORK 
HOUGHTON  MIFFLIN  COMPANY 

Cbe  Ritactsibc  prcrfg  Cambribfle 
1915 


°(  Q>  \ 
3|Q 


COPYRIGHT,   1914  AND   1915,   BY  HENRY  SYDNOR  HARRISON 
ALL   RIGHTS   RESERVED 

Published  March  iqi$ 


To  JACK 

Who  does  not  think  as  I  do. 


304172 


ILLUSTRATIONS 


"I  DECIDED  I  WOULD  REFUSE  IT"  (p.   2Ql)    .         Frontispiece 

"  No  !  MORALS  ARE  THE  BULWARK  OF  THE  NATION  !  "  8 
CHARLES  HAD  NO  GREAT  CHANCE  TO  SHOW  HIS  FEAR 

LESSNESS  OF  PUBLIC  OPINION          .         .         .         .         .       38 

"On!  .  .  .  WHY  DO  YOU  DO  THIS  ?"  ....  92 
"  WELL,  I  WON'T  MARRY  HER  !  I  WON'T  !  "  .  .  .96 
ANGELA  PEEPED  OVER  INTO  WASHINGTON  STREET  .  122 
THIS  SPINSTER  SUPPLIED  A  QUIET  CHARM  .  .  .194 
"  Ho  !  -  HAD  YOUR  SPIES  ON  ME,  HAVE  YOU  ?  "  .  .  21  6 


ANGELA'S   BUSINESS 


BEING  an  author  actually  at  work,  and  not  an  author 
being  photographed  at  work  by  a  lady  admirer,  he  did 
not  gaze  large-eyed  at  a  poppy  in  a  crystal  vase,  one 
hand  lightly  touching  his  forehead,  the  other  tossing  off 
page  after  page  in  high  godlike  frenzy.  On  the  contrary,  the 
young  man  at  the  table  yawned,  lolled,  sighed,  scratched  his 
ear,  read  snatches  of  Virginia  Carter's  "Letters  to  My  Girl 
Friends"  in  the  morning's  "Post,"  read  snatches  of  any 
printed  matter  that  happened  to  be  about,  and  even  groaned. 
When  he  gazed,  it  was  at  no  flower,  but  more  probably  at  his 
^clock,  a  stout  alarm-clock  well  known  to  the  trade  as  "Big 
Bill";  and  the  clock  gazed  back,  since  there  was  a  matter  be 
tween  them  this  evening,  and  seemed  to  say,  "  Well,  are  you 
going  to  the  Redmantle  Club,  or  are  you  not  ?  "  But  that  was 
precisely  the  point  on  which  the  young  man  at  the  table  had 
not  yet  made  up  his  mind. 

Of  course,  if  he  went  to  the  Redmantle  Club,  he  could  not 
possibly  spend  the  whole  evening  here,  writing,  and,  oddly 
enough,  this  was  at  once  a  cogent  reason  for  staying  away 
from  the  Redmantle  Club,  and  a  seductive  argument  for  go 
ing  to  the  same.  No  lady  admirer  could  ever  grasp  this  para 
dox,  but  every  true  writer  must  admit  that  I  know  his  secret 
perfectly. 

From  time  to  time,  no  diversion  offering,  the  author  would 
read  over  the  last  sentence  he  had  written,  which  very  likely 
ran  as  follows :  — 

i 


•*'•'••  i  • 'A-  il  g  e  1  a  '  s    Business 

We  have  a  society  organized  on  the  agreeable  assumption  that 
every  woman,  at  twenty-five  or  thereabouts,  finds  herself  in  pos 
session  of  a  home,  a  husband,  and  three  darling  little  curly-headed 
children. 

Stimulated  a  trifle,  he  would  thereupon  sharpen  up  his 
pencil  and  charge  forward  a  few  sentences,  as  now:  — 

Slipshod  people  never  test  such  old  assumptions  against  actual 
ity;  they  cling  to  what  their  grandfathers  said,  and  call  their  slip- 
shodness  conservatism.  So  (like  ostriches)  they  avoid  the  fact  that 
there  are  three  large  and  growing  classes  of  women  who  simply 
have  no  relation  to  their  comfortable  old  theory.  I  refer,  of  course, 
to  the  classes  of  Temporary  Spinsters,  of  Permanent  Spinsters,  and 
of  Married  but  Idle  —  childless  wives  living  in  boarding-houses, 
for  example.  Let  no  Old  Tory  conceive  that  he  has  disposed  of 
the  Woman  Question  until  he  can  plainly  answer:  What  are  all 
these  various  women  to  DO  in  their  fifteen  waking  hours  a  day? 

Following  which,  he  lit  a  cigarette  in  a  moody  manner,  and 
sat  frowning  at  the  back  of  the  head  of  his  relative  and  secre 
tary,  who  was  clacking  away  all  the  while  on  a  second-hand 
typewriter  near  by. 

It  will  be  contended  that  some  hesitancy  was  fitting  enough 
to  the  writer's  thesis,  Woman  having  raised  perplexities  in 
the  bosoms  of  philosophers  from  the  earliest  times  on.  But 
perplexity  did  not  happen  to  be  the  trouble  with  this  philos 
opher,  Charles  King  Garrott.  These  sentences  Mr.  Garrott 
so  apathetically  set  down  were  the  ancient  commonplaces  of 
his  mind,  the  familiar  bare  bones  of  special  researches  long 
holding  a  unique  position  in  his  life.  The  dull  General  Public, 
with  its  economic  eye,  might  yet  rate  him  merely  as  a  private 
tutor,  formerly  of  Blaines  College;  the  relative  and  secretary 
there  might  judge  him  only  a  young  man  of  an  unmasculine 
thin  sedentary  quality,  who  mysteriously  gave  his  youth  to 
producing  piles  of  strange  stuff  that  all  had  to  be  copied  out 
on  the  typewriter.  But,  in  the  privacy  of  his  own  soul,  Charles 


Angela's    Business 


Garrott  was,  through  all,  not  alone  the  coming  American 
novelist  (which  rather  went  without  saying),  but,  in  that 
direct  connection,  probably  the  only  man  in  the  world  who 
really  understood  Woman. 

Old  times  used  this  phrase  unscientifically;  '''understand 
ing  women"  has  acquired  misleading  connotations.  The 
words  seem  to  call  up  the  picture  of  a  purely  gallant  ob 
server,  one  with  a  polished  mustache  and  amorous  gay 
eyes,  sitting  under  a  sidewalk  awning  and  ogling  out  over 
a  purplish  drink.  We  may  go  so  far  as  to  state  plainly  that 
they  call  up  the  picture  of  a  Frenchman.  The  young  man 
at  the  table  is  scarcely  imagined  as  this  sort  of  authority,  view 
ing  Woman  crudely  as  La  Femme.  As  he  could  not  put  pencil 
to  paper  without  revealing,  Charles  Garrott  viewed  Woman, 
never  as  La  Femme,  but  exclusively  as  a  Question.  Himself 
the  New  Man  obviously,  he  saw  Woman  solely  as  a  Move 
ment,  meditated  about  her  strictly  as  an  Unrest.  When  he 
considered  her  in  the  concrete  —  and  that  he  seldom  did 
nowadays,  if  we  need  not  count  his  friend,  Mary  Wing,  who  was 
as  New  as  he,  to  say  the  least  of  it  —  his  eye  reviewed  and  criti 
cized  her,  not  as  a  Sex,  but  strictly  as  a  human  being  against  an 
environment.  Charles  Garrott  would  scientifically  diagnose  a 
Woman  to  her  face,  in  a  manner  which  she,  poor  creature, 
but  little  suspected. 

Romance  [he  began  again]  left  us  with  the  sentimental  tradi 
tion  that  a  w 

"Charles!''  said  his  relative  and  secretary,  speaking  for  the 
first  time  in  ten  minutes,  a  long  silence  for  him  —  "  I  '11  thank 
you  for  your  attention  a  moment." 

"  Certainly,  Judge/'  said  Charles  Garrott,  with  that  alacrity 
with  which  a  true  writer  habitually  welcomes  an  interruption. 

3 


Angela's    Business 


"Here,  near  the  end  of  this  story  —  passage  I  can't  for  the 
life  of  me.  .  .  .  Here!  Seems  to  go  like  this:  'Let  a  man/  cried 
Dionysius,  cracking  walnuts  with  a  sort  of  splendid  sadness, 
'but  free  his  eyes  from  the  magic  of  sex,  and  mask  my 
words'  — no!  —  let's  see  —  'mark  my  words,  Bishop,  he  shall 
see  strange  truths.' " 

There  was  a  pause. 

"Mistake  somewhere!"  said  the  gentleman  at  the  type 
writer,  with  a  chuckle.  "Well,  what's  what?" 

"No,  that's  right,  I  believe.  Why,  what's  the  matter  with 
it?" 

"Why!  — there's  no  sense  in  it!" 

"Oh  —  it's  advanced  talk,  you  know.  Modern,  epigram 
matic  stuff,  you  might  call  it." 

"Conceding  that,  here  's  the  bit  about  the  nuts.  That's 
where  the  mistake  is,  7  claim.  Let  me  see  —  '  cracking  walnuts 
with  a  sort  of  splendid  sadness.'  Good  gad,  —  that  can't  be 
right,  Charles!  'Sober  sadness,'  ' sorrowful  sadness '  —  some 
thing  of  that  sort  you  meant,  eh?" 

The  secretary  had  swung  about  suddenly,  revealing  a  face 
almost  startlingly  handsome,  fine-cut  as  a  cameo,  pink  and 
white  as  a  professional  beauty's,  and  topped  with  a  magnifi 
cent  crown  of  snow-white  hair.  • 

"'Pathetic  sadness,'  now,  my  dear  fellow?  Go  just  a  little 
better,  would  n't  it?" 

"Well  —  no,  Judge,  not  just  in  this  particular  story.  Fact 
is,  it's  meant  to  be  a  little  queer,  you  see." 

"It  is  queer,  that's  my  point!"  said  the  Judge,  rather 
worried.  "  'Cracking  walnuts  with  a  sort  of  splendid  sad 
ness' —  if  the  public  understands  that!  —  Well,  as  you  like, 
of  course." 

Having  thus  washed  his  hands  of  all  responsibility,  the  rela- 

4 


Angela's    Business 


tive  gazed  a  moment  at  a  little  red  "  Nothing  But  Business, 
Please"  sign  that  hung  above  his  typewriter- table,  hummed  a 
bar  or  two  in  a  sweet  tenor  voice,  and  resumed  his  now  expert 
clacking. 

Similarly  his  employer  resumed  his  composition:  — 

Romance  left  us  with  the  sentimental  tradition  that  a  woman's 
sex  was  a  complete,  indeed  a  glorious,  justification  of  her  existence 
(v.  F.  Dell:  "Women  as  World  Builders").  Because  she  some  day 
would  be,  or  might  possibly  be,  a  mother  of  children,  she  was  set 
upon  a  pedestal  and  left  there,  exempt  from  further  responsibili 
ties  meanwhile.  The  potentiality  of  motherhood  became  a  claim 
to  life-long  support  in  idleness,  etc.,  etc.  — 

Now,  we  have  long  understood  that  the  controlling  fact  in  the 
life  of  every  man  is  the  way  in  which  he  gets  his  living.  We  have 
long  understood  that  the  essential  immorality  is  to  get  something 
for  nothing.  But  only  lately  have  we  come  to  see  how  these  two 
general  laws  apply,  have  always  applied,  to  women.  Only  late  — 

But  there  the  pencil,  which  had  been  dragging,  came  again 
to  a  halt. 

This  writing  went  forward  in  an  old  exercise-book,  on  the 
label  of  which  a  fine  trembling  hand  had  written  "French 
Composition.'7  It  was  seen  that  firmer  fingers  had  overwritten , 
that  inscription  with  another:  "NOTES  ON  WOMEN."  Here,  in 
brief,  the  authority  was  reducing  certain  views  to  essay  form, 
according  to  a  plan  he  had :  squeezing  out  the  meat  of  his  mind 
into  the  exercise-book,  as  the  moral  basis  of  a  great  new  novel, 
nothing  less.  And  the  truth  was  that  he  had  no  sooner  begun, 
the  stock-taking  process  than  difficulties  appeared,  and  the 
present  want  of  ardor  made  itself  felt.  Faint  doubts  and  ques 
tionings,  indeed,  knocked  at  Charles  Garrott's  mind  in  these 
days;  not  touching  Woman,  of  course,  but  certainly  seeming 
to  touch  his  last  year's  formula  for  her.  "  I  'm  an  ultra-modern 
with  conservative  reactions,"  he  had  thought  to  himself,  with 
a  sense  of  important  discovery,  but  a  night  or  two  ago.  And 

5 


Angela's    Business 


on  the  whole,  he  felt  that  that  had  explained  him  scientifically 
into  the  best  company  in  the  world. 

The  reference  was  to  the  one  other  existing  person  who,  it 
was  conceded,  might  possibly  know  as  much  about  Woman 
as  he,  Charles,  did.  That  one  was  a  lady  in  Sweden.  And, 
reassuringly  enough,  he  had  long  since  noted  in  the  Swedish 
lady's  bold  modernism,  also,  this  precise  same  tendency  to 
ward  judicious  reconsideration. 

Suddenly  the  young  man  put  away  his  writing,  shut  his 
table-drawer  with  a  click,  and  said:  — 

"  I  Jm  going  out  for  awhile,  Judge  —  to  a  meeting  of  the 
Redmaritle  Club.  Think  I  need  a  little  stimulus." 

He  went  away  to  the  bedroom,  thinking,  but  not  of  the  Red- 
mantle  Club,  for  which,  to  say  truth,  he  cared  little.  Nor 
were  his  thoughts  in  line  with  the  swingeing  sentences  he  had 
just  been  writing  in  the  exercise-book.  On  the  contrary,  the 
young  authority  was  openly  inquiring  of  himself:  Was  eco 
nomic  independence  the  complete  solution  of  the  Unrest? 
Were  there  no  Values  in  the  world  but  Utilitarian  Values? 

The  bedroom  door  shut,  and  Judge  Blenso,  who  had  replied 
with  a  mere  busy  nod  to  Charles's  announcement,  desisted 
from  his  clacking,  and  produced  a  late  copy  of  "The  Rider 
and  Driver"  from  the  little  drawer  of  his  typewriter-table. 
He  began  to  look  at  pictures  with  a  happy  expression  upon  his 
striking  face. 

Why  was  Mr.  Blenso  called  the  Judge?  An  interesting 
point,  on  which  I,  for  one,  unluckily  can  shed  no  light.  But 
if  he  has  also  been  called  a  relative  and  secretary,  that  was 
for  the  sake  of  peace  only.  To  say  outright  that  this  fine  large 
gentleman  was  Charles  Garrott's  nephew  (his  half-nephew, 
to  be  exact)  would  necessitate  a  vast  deal  of  explanatory  gen 
ealogy.  That  was  a  fact,  as  the  family  Bibles  of  the  Blensos 

6 


Angela's    Business 


and  Minters  clearly  proved,  but  it  is  a  fact  that  had  better 
be  quietly  ceded.  Judge  Blenso  was  a  relative,  and  it  is  quite 
true  that  his  young  half-uncle  had  been  reared  from  infancy 
to  address  him  as  Uncle  George.  Garrott,  who  had  no  other 
nephew  in  the  world,  had  always  thought  it  a  little  unfair. 

The  Judge's  disaster  had  come  upon  him  in  the  prime  of  a 
gallant  widowerhood.  He  had  dived  from  an  unfamiliar  pier, 
one  luckless  day,  in  the  interests  of  a  stout  young  woman, 
who  flattered  herself  that  she  was  drowning.  Diving  too  close 
to  avoid  her  bulk,  Charles's  relative  had  struck  his  head 
upon  a  submerged  beam  which  should  not  have  been  there; 
and  the  stout  young  woman,  so  far  from  drowning,  had 
promptly  proved  that  she  could  float  enough  for  two.  She 
had  saved  her  rescuer's  life,  in  short. 

But  the  beam  had  had  the  last  word  in  the  encounter,  after 
all.  When  Uncle  George  Blenso  got  well  of  his  concussion, 
it  was  early  discovered  that  he  was  just  a  little  "different"; 
also  that  his  nominal  Real  Estate  and  Loans  business  down 
town  was  far,  far  from  solvent.  It  was  accordingly  proposed 
in  the  family  that  Uncle  George  should  go  to  the  Garrott  place 
in  Prince  William  County;  but  this  proposal  had  been  rejected 
at  once  by  Uncle  George,  who  protested  indignantly  that  he 
was  a  city  man.  The  upshot  was  that  Charles,  being  the  only 
city  relative  extant,  had  invited  the  Judge  to  share  his  third 
floor  here,  turning  out  his  young  friend  and  room-mate, 
Donald  Manford,  for  that  express  purpose.  That  had  seemed 
to  settle  the  issue.  But  no;  very  soon  the  lively  kinsman  was 
pointing  out  that  he  would  need  money,  of  course,  for  clothes, 
club-dues,  and  so  on,  and  accordingly  it  was  arranged  that 
he  should  become  Charles's  literary  assistant  on  a  regular 
salaried  basis. 

It  happened  that  Charles  had  as  yet  had  occasion  to  pub- 

7 


Angela's    Business 


lish  but  a  single  fiction  ("The  Truth  About  Jennie";  see 
"Favorite  Magazine,"  for  August,  1910).  He  had,  indeed,  as 
much  need  of  a  private  chaplain  as  of  a  secretary.  The  pecu 
liarities  of  the  case,  thus,  often  struck  and  amused  him;  and 
they  did  so  now  as,  opening  the  door  of  the  bedroom,  hatted 
and  coated,  he  saw  his  secretary's  still  youthful  head  bowed 
pleasantly  over  the  magazine. 

"Ah,  my  dear  fellow,  there  you  are!"  said  the  secretary, 
with  just  a  little  jump. 

And  putting  down  his  reading-matter  in  a  manner  suggest 
ing  that,  of  course,  he  had  had  to  kill  time  somehow  while 
waiting  for  Charles,  he  went  on  at  once  in  an  agreeable  confi 
dential  voice:  — 

"  By  the  by,  I  intended  to  ask  you  —  you  Ve  heard  about 
this  Miss  Trevenna?  Gad,  you  know,  Charles!  Her  father 
won't  let  her  name  be  mentioned!" 

The  employer  eyed  him  gravely,  pulling  on  his  gloves.  The 
story  alluded  to  was  not  unknown  to  him:  how  one  modern 
girl,  claiming  more  Freedom  than  existed,  had  too  rashly 
crossed  the  great  gulf,  and  how,  her  enterprise  proving  fatally 
unsuccessful,  she.  had  lately  come  home  again.  FL  felt  very 
sorry  for  Miss  Trevenna. 

"Fact!  —  her  mother  visits  her  in  secret,  in  lodgings,"  said 
his  secretary,  dropping  his  eager  voice  further.  "  A  sad  case  — 
sad,  yes  —  but,  my  dear  fellow,  can  we  allow  our  girls  to  run 
off  with  other  people's  husbands?  No!  Morals,"  said  Judge 
Blenso,  sternly,  "are  the  bulwark  of  the  nation!  —  that's 
what  7  say!  Am  I  right,  Charles?" 

Charles  said  that  he  was  perfectly  right.  He  then  proposed 
that  the  Judge  should  knock  off  work  for  the  night,  forthwith. 
But  the  Judge  looked  rather  shocked  at  the  suggestion,  and 
began  to  clack  vigorously  at  Dionysius. 

8 


"NO!  MORALS  ARE  THE  BULWARK  OF  THE  NATION 


Angela's    Business 


"  There 's  really  no  hurry  about  this  short  stuff,  you  know. 
Why  not  go  down  and  cheer  Mrs.  Herman  up  a  bit?  She 
always  appreciates  a  call  from  you. " 

The  relative's  hand  irresistibly  rose  to  his  mustache. 

"A  nne  woman,  a  rharmin'  fine  widow-woman,"  said  he, 
in  his  rich  voice.  " But!  —  business  before  pleasure,  Charles, 
That's  my  way,  my  boy." 

However,  the  ringing  motto  seemed  a  little  too  good  to  live 
up  to.  Hardly  had  the  front  door  shut  on  Charles  when  Judge 
Blenso  —  he  rather  insisted  on  the  official  title,  now  that 
he  was  secretary  —  hooded  his  old  typewriter  for  the  night, 
turned  down  the  light  in  the  green-domed  lamp  on  the  table, 
and  descended  to  visit  his  landlady.  That  he  had  small  rev 
erence  for  his  half-uncle's  New  Thinking  now  became  clear. 
The  Judge  left  the  Studio  (as  he  himself  had  christened  it), 
chuckling  silently  to  himself,  and  on  the  steps  began  to  chant 
aloud  a  sort  of  gay  recitative  of  his  own  composition.  The 
chant  went  a  beat  to  every  step,  thus:  "Cracking  —  piffle 
—  walnuts  —  piffle  —  in  a  —  sort  of  —  piffle  —  sadness!" 


II 


THE  Redmantle  Club  was  more  advanced  than 
Charles,  and  he  knew  it.'  And  when  he  told  his  rela 
tive  that  he  was  going  to  it  for  stimulus,  he  must 
have  been  secretly  well  aware  that  it  was  but  a  treacherous 
stimulus  he  was  likely  to  get. 

The  Club  had  been  founded  by  Mrs.  Frederick  B.  Seaman, 
who  had  once  had  a  novel  published,  long  ago,  at  a  nominal 
expense  of  two  hundred  and  fifty  dollars.  The  name  Red- 
mantle  had  some  significance  which  eludes  memory,  but 
there  seems  to  be  no  doubt  that  the  founder's  original  idea 
had  been  merely  to  gather  together  a  few  congenial  persons 
to  abuse  the  publishers  to.  The  times,  however,  chanced  to 
be  ripe  for  a  broader  forum,  one  where  the  most  advanced  wo 
men  of  both  sexes  could  meet  and  freely  speak  out  the  New 
Mind.  The  Redmantle  had  seemed  to  fill  the  long-felt  want, 
from  the  start.  Now  its  meetings  began  with  a  Programme, 
and  you  may  be  sure  nobody  bothered  with  such  small  fry 
as  a  publisher.  The  Redmantle  speakers  won  salvos  only 
by  completely  exterminating  the  Family  and  the  Home,  or 
proving  beyond  successful  contradiction  that  Love  Is  Going 
Out. 

By  arriving  late  on  purpose,  Charles  Garrott  missed  a 
speech  by  Mary  Wing  on  the  New  Education,  for  which  he 
was  rather  sorry.  For  a  year  or  more  he  had  regarded  Miss 
Wing  as  one  of  his  best  friends,  and  he  always  liked  to  hear  her 
demolish,  in  characteristically  forceful  sentences,  the  surviv 
ing  tradition  that  the  true  object  of  education  is  to  ornament 

10 


Angela's    Business 


gentility.  He  liked  to  see  Mary  Wing  lay  her  hand  upon 
her  breast,  her  Self,  and  cry  out:  "  So  long  as  I  live,  whatever 
I  do  or  think  or  am,  the  center  of  the  world  for  me  is  here.  I 
will  not  conjugate  dead  languages  or  recite  the  imports  of 
Uruguay,  before  I  learn  the  first  fact  about  my  Self  —  my 
body  and  my  mind,  my  background  and  my  opportunity!" 
On  the  other  hand,  by  his  late  arrival,  Charles  missed  Miss 
Frothingham's  advanced  harp-solo,  and  Professor  Clarence 
Pollock's  tribute  to  a  celebrated  lady  anarchist.  As  to  the 
elder  Miss  Rodger's  address  on  the  New  Ego,  he  was  not 
much  less  opportune.  Miss  Hodger  was  nearing  her  perora 
tion  as  the  writing  tutor  appeared  at  the  door. 

He  took  up  a  position  just  inside,  and  looked  through  the 
parlor  smoke.  The  smoke  emanated  principally  from  the 
ladies,  who  were,  however,  as  five  to  one.  Miss  Hodger  tow 
ered  by  a  baby-grand  piano,  one  hand  upon  an  album,  and 
clamored  for  her  Rights.  She  demanded  these  Rights  of  hers, 
whatever  they  were,  with  such  iteration  and  passion  that  a 
kindly,  simple  person,  had  there  been  any  such  present,  must 
needs  have  cried  out,  "Give  that  lady  her  Rights  there!  — 
and  quick  about  it!" 

Miss  Hodger 's  was  a  tall  figure,  bony  but  commanding;  she 
had  a  flat  chest,  a  tangled  mane  of  sorrel  hair  and  a  face 
somewhat  like  a  horse's.  Of  her  argument,  little  need  be  said; 
you  may  find  it  in  detail  in  the  very  books  where  Miss  Hodger 
found  it.  It  was,  in  sum,  an  unanswerable  demonstration  of 
woman's  sacred  duty  of  Developing  her  Ego.  The  expose  of 
the  Home  proved  particularly  searching;  it  brought  loud 
cheers.  Much  Miss  Hodger  said,  too,  of  the  Higher  Law  and 
the  Richness  of  Personality,  of  Contributions  to  the  Race 
and  Enhancement  of  the  Life  Stream.  In  Charles  Garrott's 
ears  one  sentence  seemed  to  ring  and  stick  above  the  rest: 

ii 


Angela's    Business 


"Fiercely  and  relentlessly  shall  Modern  Woman  hack  away 
all  that  impedes  her  in  her  Self-Development  —  all,  I  care 
not  what  it  is!" 

She  ended  with  a  kind  of  yell,  thumped  the  album  twice, 
and  strode  away  from  the  baby-grand.  There  were  bursts 
of  clapping,  a  chorus  of  approval,  and  then  general  buzzing 
and  commotion.  The  Programme  was  over.  Everybody  was 
standing:  all  talking,  nobody  left  to  listen.  Servants  entered 
bearing  trays  of  light  refreshments ;  light,  indeed,  they  looked. 
It  was  the  Redmantle's  social  hour,  the  hour  of  good,  free, 
courageous  talk. 

Charles  Garrott  moved  into  the  noisy  room.  All  his  sides, 
of  course,  were  not  known  to  his  fellow  members,  and  yet  he 
had  a  standing  here.  He  was  recognized  as  one  of  the  pioneer 
Rightsers;  his  last  year's  speech  before  the  Club,  on  "Work 
for  Women,"  had  been  generally  adjudged  a  first-rate  piece  of 
Modern  Thinking.  And  all  the  Redmantlers  seemed  to  like 
to  talk  to  him,  too;  they  would  get  round  him  and  back  him 
up  into  corners  in  a  way  he  scarcely  liked.  Mrs.  Frederick  B. 
Seaman  looked  as  if  she  meant  to  kiss  him.  "And  now,"  she 
said,  beaming,  "for  a  good  long  talk  about  my  new  book." 
He  cleverly  evaded  her,  but  in  so  doing  fell  right  into  the 
net  of  the  hearthside  anarchist,  Professor  Pollock,  who  drew 
him  .in  with  a  hand  as  large  and  soft  as  a  beefsteak.  Pollock 
was  a  thin,  bald  young  man,  with  the  conventional  flowing 
necktie,  and  the  New  disappearing  chin,  and  secretly  Gar 
rott  had  always  thought  him  a  most  terrific  jackass. 

"How  are  we  going  to  relieve  this  White  Slave  situation, 
Garrott?  How?  How?" 

"It  is  one  of  the  grave  problems  of  the  day,"  said  Charles. 
"At  the  moment  I  can  only  answer,  as  President  Taft  an 
swered  the  workman  at  Cooper  — " 

12 


Angela's    Business 


"What,  you  admit  that  you  have  no  remedy  to  lay  down? 
None  whatever?" 

"At  the  moment,  none.  It  is  one  of  the  grave  — " 

The  younger  and  even  freer  Miss  Hodger,  who  had  been 
hovering  near,  exploded  a  mouthful  of  cigarette  smoke,  and 
exclaimed  excitedly:  — 

" Oh,  sister,  only  think!  Mr.  Garrott  has  no  remedy  for  the 
White  Slave  situation!" 

They  thought  it  most  reprehensible  of  him  to  have  no  rem 
edy,  and  closed  in  on  him,  bursting  with  theirs.  "Have  you 
not  considered  the  necessities  of  the  living  wage!"  demanded 
the  elder  Miss  Hodger's  joyless  voice,  suddenly  at  his  elbow. 
"Living  wage  —  bah!"  said  Professor  Pollock,  hotly.  "A 
mere  sop  —  a  mere  feeble  temporizing — "  "You  must  get 
into  their  homes!"  cried  the  youngest  Miss  Hodger,  who  ad 
mitted  homes  only  as  places  to  get  into.  "You  must  take 
them  very,  very  young  ..." 

So  they  fell  to  quarreling  among  themselves,  and  Charles 
Garrott  wriggled  away,  wishing  that  he  were  as  cocksure 
about  anything  as  the  Hodgers  were  about  everything,  and 
resolving  to  try  to  be  henceforward.  So  he  eluded  Miss  Froth- 
ingham,  who  was  handicapped  by  her  harp  and  nearsighted 
besides,  but  ran  at  once  against  a  crimson-faced  woman  in  a 
purple  negligee,  a  stranger  to  him  he  felt  sure,  but  she  asked 
him  at  once,  in  an  angry  sort  of  way,  "  Don't  you  favor  a  pub 
lic  reception  immediately  to  splendid  Flora  Trevenna?"  In 
spite  of  his  resolution,  Charles's  eyes  fell  before  the  threaten 
ing  gaze.  It  seemed  to  be  the  sixth  time,  at  least,  that  he  had 
caught  the  name  of  Miss  Trevenna  among  the  Turkish  fumes, 
but  the  idea  of  the  public  reception  immediately  was  new  to 
him.  "Don't  you  think  she's  struck  a  great  Blow  for  Free 
dom?"  demanded  the  crimson  one,  with  rising  indignation. 

13 


Angela's    Business 


" Don't  you  think  she's  weakened  the  hold  of  the  horrible 
Tyranny  of  Marriage?" 

Thus  the  Modern  got  stimuli,  of  just  the  sort  he  had  known 
he  would  get  if  he  came.  Members  jostled  him,  blew  smoke 
in  his  eyes,  laid  demonstrative  hands  upon  him.  All  about 
him  in  the  dense  air,  he  heard  hot  voices  crying  out  incorrect 
statements  of  things  they  had  lately  misread;  at  best  loose 
bits  plucked  from  authors  whom  he,  Charles,  had  turned  in 
side  out  year  before  last,  as  like  as  not.  And  why,  he  won 
dered,  need  Redmantlers  look  so  queer?  Why  must  new  ideas, 
if  only  the  least  bit  radical,  invariably  attract  people  who  liked 
to  wear  breakfast-gowns  in  the  evening,  people  with  un 
combed  hair  and  burning  pop-eyes,  people  who  had  little 
chin,  indeed,  but  yet  far  more  chin  than  humor? 

And  then  suddenly,  in  the  midst  of  the  febrile  Newness,  the 
young  authority  found  himself  talking  to  a  sweet-faced  girl 
from  the  country,  who  looked  at  him  with  woman's  eyes, 
and  spoke  simple  little  things  in  a  pretty  voice:  "Do  you 
play  bridge?  Do  you  tango?  It  must  be  wonderful  to  be  a 
writer.  ..." 

It  was  really  an  extraordinary  experience. 

The  development  came  by  way  of  his  good  friend,  Mary 
Wing,  whom  Charles  reached  at  last  with  a  certain  sense  of 
making  port.  Miss  Wing,  it  must  be  known,  was  the  assistant 
principal  of  the  great  City  High  School,  where  no  woman  had 
ever  been  before  her,  where  she  herself  had  arrived  only  after 
eight  years'  incessant  battling  upward.  She  was  also,  this 
long  time,  president  of  the  State  Branch  of  the  National 
League  for  Education  Reform,  with  the  prospect  of  pres 
ently  mounting  far  higher,  to  nothing  less,  if  you  please,  than 
the  General  Secretaryship  of  that  rich  and  powerful  body. 
Considering  her  history  and  her  exploits,  it  seemed  that  she 

14 


Angela's    Business 


should  have  been  six  feet  tall,  with  a  gaze  like  a  Gorgon  and 
a  jaw  like  Miss  Hodger's.  But  Mary  Wing  was  actually  a 
slight  and  almost  fragile-looking  creature,  with  quite  girlish 
blue  eyes  in  a  colorless  face  that  wore  an  air  of  deceptive  deli 
cacy. 

She  was  two  months  older  than  her  friend,  Mr.  Garrott, 
which  made  her  thirty  in  December.  And  she  was  undoubtedly 
the  most  distinguished  person  in  that  strident  room,  not  ex 
cepting  (at  the  present  writing)  Mr.  Garrott  himself. 

The  assistant  principal  was  discovered  leaning  against  a 
bookcase,  eating  sandwiches  in  large  bites,  two  bites  to  a  sand 
wich,  and  paying  no  attention  to  the  earnest  talk  of  the  group 
she  seemed  to  belong  to.  "It  must  be  the  effect  of  speaking," 
she  said  to  Garrott.  "I'm  ravenous.  But  goodness,  there's 
no  nourishment  in  these  little  paper  things."  And  almost  at 
once  she  demanded,  firm  as  a  Redmantler,  if  he  had  ever  been 
to  call  on  Dr.  Flower;  some  cousin  or  other  of  hers,  this  was, 
who  (through  her  connections  in  the  educational  world)  had 
lately  taken  an  appointment  as  lecturer  at  the  Medical  School. 
Charles  had  agreed  to  call  on  this  worthy,  it  seemed,  but 
naturally  he  had  n't  done  so. 

She  chided  him  for  his  remissness.  It  was  a  mild  enough 
reproof,  in  all  conscience;  yet  it  was  at  that  moment  that  he, 
with  his  diagnostic  tendency,  caught  himself  eyeing  Mary 
Wing  critically,  as  if  she  were  any  other  Redmantler.  And 
then  he  seemed  to  become  aware  that,  without  knowing  it 
exactly,  he  must  have  been  eyeing  Mary  Wing  critically  for 
some  time  past  now. 

"He'll  need  some  patients,  too,  to  eke  out.  I  must  look 
into  that,"  said  she,  popping  the  second  half  of  a  sandwich 
into  her  mouth.  "I  suppose  you  don't  know  anybody  who 
intends  to  be  sick  soon,  in  a  costly  way?" 

15 


Angela's    Business 


He  shook  his  head.  He  himself,  he  intimated,  had  no  idea 
of  getting  sick  merely  to  oblige  her  rural  cousins. 

"What  does  that  girl  do?"  he  added,  almost  irritably. 
"Did  n't  you  tell  me  there  was  a  girl,  twenty-five  years  old? 
Why  does  n't  she  work,  and  eke  out?" 

"She  does  work.  She  runs  the  house." 

"Apparently  you  did  n't  see  Mrs.  Waldo's  statement  that 
quarter  of  an  hour  a  day  was  quite  enough  for  that  so-called 
work." 

"Do  you  believe  that?" 

"I  know  it 's  false.  Still  there  are  ninety-six  quarters  of 
an  hour  in  a  day,  people  estimate.  What  sort  of  girl  is  she? 
Little  nitwit,  I  suppose?" 

"She's  my  cousin." 

"Lots  of  people  have  little  nitwits  for  cousins.  Why  does 
n't  she  pitch  in  and  earn  her  keep,  like  a  free  personality  — 
as  our  friend  Miss  Hodger  would  say?" 

Miss  Wing  was  observing  him  with  a  strange  air,  resem 
bling  amusement.  "You  must  really  ask  her  that  yourself 
some  time,  Mr.  Garrott." 

"I'll  do  it  with  pleasure,  the  first  time  ever  I  clap  eyes  on 
her." 

"Well,  then,"  said  she, with  a  sudden  laugh,  "do  it  now!" 

And  thereupon,  within  ten  seconds,  the  managing  young 
woman  had  whisked  him  around  a  knot  of  Redman  tiers, 
whisked  him  around  the  bookcase,  and  was  saying  in  merry, 
efficient  tones:  — 

"Angela,  this  is  the  famous  Mr.  Garrott  you've  heard  so 
much  about  —  my  cousin,  Miss  Flower!  Mr.  Garrott 's  very 
anxious  to  —  " 

She  paused  wickedly,  but  after  all  finished  without  malice, 
"To  make  your  acquaintance."  And  so  Mr.  Garrott  did  not 

16 


Angela's    Business 


have  to  ask  the  country  cousin  on  the  spot  what  she  was  think 
ing  about  not  to  earn  her  keep. 

The  girl  had  been  standing  against  the  other  corner  of  the 
bookcase  all  the  time,  it  seemed.  She  was  talking,  in  a  polite 
sort  of  way,  to  another  guest  —  Mr.  Tilletts,  the  wealthy  and 
seeking  widower  —  and  fanning  away  tobacco  smoke  with  a 
hand  too  small  for  the  heavy  odds.  Mr.  Tilletts  was  removed 
at  once  by  the  thoroughly  competent  Miss  Wing. 

Charles  Garrott,  recovered  from  the  sudden  little  surprise, 
looked  at  the  cousin  with  interest,  and  was  at  no  loss  for 
easy  conversation.  While  he  knew  of  Miss  Flower  very  well, 
he  pointed  out,  he  had  had  no  idea  that  she  was  here  this 
evening.  In  fact,  he  had  n't  gathered  that  Miss  Flower  went 
in  for  —  well,  for  this  sort  of  thing,  exactly. 

"Why  —  I  really  don't,  I'm  afraid,"  said  she  in  her  soft 
voice.  "I  don't  suppose  I  understand  it  all  very  well.  I 
just  came  —  because  Cousin  Mary  invited  me! " 

She  hesitated,  then  laughed,  and  finally  said:  "And  you 
see,  it  Js  the  first  party  I  've  been  invited  to  since  I  came  here 
to  live!" 

"And  you  like  parties?" 

"Yes,  so  much.  Don't  you?" 

The  remark,  at,  and  as  to,  the  Redmantle,  seemed  delightful. 

"  I  did,  when  I  was  young  and  gay.  Now,  I  never  seem  to 
have  time  to  enjoy  myself  any  more.  You  Ve  been  meeting 
a  good  many  people,  I  suppose?" 

"Well,  no,  —  not  many  yet.  Really  hardly  any."  The 
girl  laughed,  and  again  showed  a  charming  naivete :  "  You  're 
the  very  first  man  I  've  met  since  we  came  here  —  except  Mr. 
Tilletts!" 

"But  that's  a  tremendous  exception,  Miss  Flower.  You 
appreciate  that  he's  one  of  our  leading  swains?" 

17 


Angela's    Business 


"Oh,  is  he!"  she  said,  a  little  disconcerted.  "Why  —  I 
hope  he  did  n't  think  I  was  rude !  I  thought  he  was  — 
somebody's  father,  you  see,  or  uncle.  ..." 

Charles  Garrott  regarded  the  cousin  pleasurably,  with  no 
thought  of  cross-examination.  He,  the  authority,  it  need 
scarcely  be  said,  had  recognized  this  girl  at  sight.  Manifestly, 
she  was  none  other  than  the  Nice  Girl,  the  Womanly  Woman, 
whom  he  and  all  moderns  were  forever  holding  up  to  scorn. 
Doubtless  it  was  merely  the  increased  conservative  reaction: 
but  Charles,  for  the  moment,  seemed  conscious  of  no  scorn  in 
him  toward  Miss  Angela  Flower. 

The  cousin  was  pretty;  not  beautiful,  no  throne-shaker;  but 
pretty,  and  attractive-looking.  Wholly  normal  she  looked, 
quite  engagingly  so,  with  her  fine  clear  skin,  smooth  dark  hair, 
and  large  limpid  eyes.  In  her  manner  there  was  something 
soft,  simple,  and  sweet,  an  ingenuous  desire  to  please  and  be 
pleased;  Miss  Flower  was  feminine,  in  short,  —  it  could  not  be 
denied.  In  a  company,  where  the  women  acted  like  men,  and 
the  men  acted  like  the  Third  Sex,  this  girl  seemed  content  to 
remind  you,  like  her  mothers,  that  she  was  a  woman. 

Her  conversation,  intrinsically  speaking,  was  not  remark 
able.  But  —  the  insidious  contrast  again  —  in  a  Midst  where 
everybody  else  was  conversing  remarkably,  plain  conversa 
tion  itself  became  an  episode,  and  a  charming  one.  She  spoke 
of  bridge,  saying  that  she  and  Cousin  Mary  were  hoping  to 
"get  up  a  table"  one  night  very  soon;  of  Mitchellton,  where 
she  had  lived  seven  years  till  September;  of  the  maxixe  and 
the  smallness  of  the  house  Mary  Wing  had  taken  for  them;  a 
dozen  such  un-New  simplicities.  And  then,  as  she  happened 
to  be  saying  something  about  the  strangeness  of  the  city, 
"just  at  first,"  Charles  Garrott  exclaimed  suddenly,  rather 
pleased:  — 

18 


Angela's    Business 


"There's  a  friend  of  yours,  at  any  rate,  Miss  Flower  — 
Donald  Manford!  The  last  one  in  the  world  you'd  expect  to 
meet  here." 

The  engineer  must  have  just  come  in;  over  bobbing  heads, 
through  waving  arms,  his  fine  figure  and  bronzed  face  had 
been  suddenly  glimpsed  at  the  doorway.  This  young  man  was 
another  cousin  of  Mary  Wing's;  she,  indeed,  had  raised  him 
by  hand;  and  he  looked  hardly  less  alien  at  the  Redmantle 
Club  than  Miss  Angela  Flower  herself. 

To  Garrott's  astonishment,  Miss  Flower  did  not  know 
Donald  from  Adam. 

"Is  that  Mr.  Manford?"  she  exclaimed,  surprised  appar 
ently  by  her  cousin's  cousin's  good  looks.  "Of  course  I've 
known  of  him  for  the  longest  time,  but  — " 

"Why,  that's  strange  —  he's  like  a  brother  to  Mary  Wing. 
But  then,"  said  he,  reconsidering,  "Donald's  out  of  the 
city  half  the  time,  and  does  nothing  but  work  when  he's 
here." 

"Oh!  Cousin  Mary  said  she  was  going  to  bring  him  to  see 
us  some  time  —  but  — " 

He  enlarged  upon  the  young  engineer's  industry  (trained 
into  him  by  Miss  Wing) ;  explained  how  he  was  busier  than 
usual  just  now  in  view  of  his  coming  trip  to  Wyoming;  men 
tioned  the  great  Mora  dam  and  cut-off  project,  on  which  he 
expected  a  commission  under  Gebhardt  himself. 

"And  your  cousin  Mary,  too,"  he  concluded,  in  the  justest 
way,  "is  an  awfully  busy  person,  you  see." 

"Yes,  of  course,  I  know!  She  does  work  terribly  hard,  does 
n't  she?" 

After  the  slightest  pause,  the  girl  added:  "It's  such  a  pity 
she  has  to,  don't  you  think  so?" 

On  which  Donald  Manford  dropped  cleanly  from  Charles's 

19 


Angela's    Business 


mind,  and  he  inquired  with  authoritative  interest,  artfully 
concealed:  "How  do  you  mean,  exactly?" 

"Well  —  I  don't  know  —  " 

She  looked  at  him,  laughing  a  little,  as  if  not  certain  how 
far  she  could  say  what  she  meant;  but  finding  his  gaze  so 
extremely  encouraging,  she  went  on  seriously:  — 

"Don't  you  think  when  a  woman  gets  really  wrrapped  up 
in  business  —  and  all  that  —  she 's  apt  to  miss  some  of  the 
best  things  of  life?" 

He  might  have  laughed  at  the  quaint  deliciousness  of  that, 
to  him,  Charles  Garrott.  But  he  did  n't. 

"That's  the  great  question  your  sex  is  working  out,  is  n't 
it?"  he  said,  carefully.  "I  don't  suppose  work  —  just  mod 
erate,  useful  occupation  —  ever  hurt  anybody  much,  do  you?" 

"Oh,  no!  —  of  course  not.  That's  just  what  I  believe,  too. 
I  believe  everybody  ought  to  have  work  to  do.  But  —  all  the 
work  is  n't  teaching  or  going  to  an  office  —  or  being  a  public 
speaker  —  do  you  think  so?  " 

"Oh,  never.  No,  indeed." 

She  hesitated  and  said,  laughing:  "I  know  /  find  it  work 
enough  just  keeping  a  house  and  doing  the  housework  —  and 
being  a  daughter  and  sister!" 

It  was  at  that  point  that  Charles's  purely  conventional  look 
altered,  his  inmost  self  pricking  up  its  ears,  as  it  were.  And 
a  moment  later  the  simple  girl  said,  in  the  naivest  way  im 
aginable,  what  seemed  immediately  to  stick  in  his  scientific 
Woman  lore  like  a  burr:  — 

"Of  course  I  have  n't  studied  and  read  like  Cousin  Mary, 
but  truly  it  seems  to  me  that  —  just  making  a  home  is  some 
times  all  the  business  a  woman  could  possibly  attend  to.  .  .  . " 

He  stood  looking  down  at  her  in  the  strangest  way,  en 
grossed  with  novel  reflections.  She  would  have  been  aston- 

20 


Angela's    Business 


ished  had  she  guessed  how  her  chance  phrase  had  set  this 
man's  mind  to  working,  behind  the  pleasant  mask.  In  her 
innocence  she  clearly  did  not  understand,  even  after  all  the 
speeches,  how  at  the  Redmantle  Club  we  talked  of  all  busi 
nesses,  and  everybody's  business,  but  never  the  business  of 
making  a  home. 

The  reactionary  talk  proceeded  for  a  space.  But  shortly, 
there  were  signs  that  the  meeting  was  about  to  adjourn.  And 
it  was  clear  to  Charles,  as  a  true  writer  of  a  philosophical 
tendency,  that  he  should  be  glad  to  be  alone  for  a  space  now, 
and  to  think. 

He  said  suddenly:  — 

"Miss  Flower,  I  want  very  much  to  introduce  Donald 
Manford  to  you,  before  I  go.  May  I  do  it  now?  Won't  you 
promise  to  hold  fast  to  this  bookcase,  and  not  budge  till  I 
comeback?" 

The  girl  promised.  She  seemed  pleased  by  his  thought  of 
her,  but  sorry  over  his  own  impending  departure.  "Oh,  do 
you  have  to  go  now?  "  she  said,  and  her  woman's  eyes  seemed 
to  add  quite  plainly:  "I'd  lots  rather  talk  to  you  than  meet 
Mr.  Manford." 

The  young  authority  smiled  at  her,  and  disappeared  into 
the  company.  Directly,  he  was  back  again,  the  engineer  in  tow. 

Donald,  found  conversing  in  a  nook  with  another  hand 
some  guest,  a  Miss  Helen  Carson,  had  rather  resisted  re 
moval  and  been  hauled  off,  truth  to  tell,  in  some  ill-humor. 
But  Charles,  for  his  part,  felt  warmly  pleased  with  himself, 
bringing  together  these  two  nice,  normal  cousins  of  Mary 
Wing's.  The  girl  too,  looked  pleased;  her  eyes  were  shining, 
a  pretty  color  tinged  her  young  cheek. 

"I'm  so  glad  to  meet  you,  Mr.  Manford,  at  last.  We're 
really  sort  of  connections,  are  n't  we  —  once  removed!" 

21 


Angela's     Business 


"  Yes,  I  believe  so !  —  that 's  fine.  Delighted  to  know  you," 
said  Mr.  Manford.  "I  hope  you  enjoyed  the  speeches  this 
evening?" 

"Well  — that's  hardly  a  fair  question!"  laughed  Miss 
Angela,  looking  from  one  man  to  the  other.  "Are  you  a  — 
regular  member?" 

The  query  brought  applauding  laughter  from  Mr.  Garrott 
and  a  weak  groan  from  Mr.  Manford.  "You  mean  I  look  like 
one?  Oh,  that's  a  blow!  No,  honor  bright,"  he  added,  "I 
leave  all  the  advanced  stuff  to  Mary." 

Then  Charles  took  his  leave,  in  the  friendliest  manner.  He 
felt,  in  an  odd  sort  of  way,  that  there  had  sprung  a  kind  of 
bond  between  this  girl  and  him,  all  the  realer  in  that  she,  of 
course,  was  so  unconscious  of  it.  So  kindly  did  he  feel  toward 
Mary  Wing's  cousin,  indeed,  that  when  she  hoped,  in  her 
charming  natural  way,  that  he  would  come  to  see  them  some 
time  soon,  he,  though  anything  but  a  caller,  actually  came 
very  near  promising  to  do  so. 

Miss  Flower's  eyes  regretted  his  going;  they  were  feminine 
eyes.  Charles  smiled  into  them  again,  pressed  her  hand,  and 
turned  away  toward  the  Studio,  to  think. 

By  the  door,  he  ran  again  into  Mary  Wing.  The  educator 
had  changed  her  position,  but  was  still  eating  sandwiches. 
She  beckoned  Charles  nearer,  in  her  confident  way,  and 
said:  — 

"Do  you  remember  my  telling  you  how  much  I  wanted 
to  see  Donald  settled  before  he  went  off,  and  sketching  a  few 
of  the  qualifications  the  girl  must  have?  And  your  saying 
that  what  I  wanted  was  a  syndicate?  " 

He  remembered,  he  said. 

"See  how  I  treasure  up  your  bon  mots.  Well,  there  she  is." 

And  she  nodded  down  the  room,  not  even  in  the  direction 

22 


Angela's    Business 


of  her  cousin  from  the  country,  but  to  none  other  than  Miss 
Carson,  now  found  conversing  with  the  heated  Pollock. 

"Oh,"  said  Garrott. 

"  Why,"  exclaimed  Mary,  the  moment  her  eyes  had  followed 
her  nod,  "I  wonder  where  Donald  is!  " 

He  decided  to  pretend  not  to  hear.  Gazing  at  Miss  Carson 
in  the  light  of  this  information,  he  was  ready  to  concede  that 
she  seemed  a  sound  enough  modern  choice.  Well-connected, 
well-to-do,  and  completely  educated,  the  young  lady  in  ques 
tion,  while  now  taking  "  two  years  out"  to  please  her  mother, 
was  next  year  going  to  work,  to  please  herself  —  of  course, 
in  Social  Service.  Young  and  alluring  Miss  Carson  looked, 
indeed.  But  something  in  the  mould  of  her  smooth  chin,  con 
fronting  the  young  man  who  had  none,  seemed  to  serve  notice 
that,  though  she  was  beautiful,  she  knew  that  Women's  Egos 
must  be  free. 

"Don't  you  think  she  may  be  a  little  firm?  I  mean,  for 
Donald?" 

"Firm?  Not  a  bit!  —  she 's  human  and  competent.  Heav 
ens!  —  you  don't  want  Donald  to  marry  a  helpless  little  silly, 
do  you?  But  what  on  earth  became  of  him,  did  you  notice? 
I  made  him  come  here  after  me  specially  to  meet  her,  and  I 
had  them  talking  so  nicely  —  " 

Then  Charles  said  firmly:  "I  just  introduced  him  to  Miss 
Flower.  It  seemed  you'd  neglected  to  do  so.  By  the  way, 
your  cousin's  charming." 

"Oh,"  said  Mary,  rather  drawn-out. 

And,  after  a  rebuking  pause,  she  added  in  pedagogic  tones: 
"Well,  I  'm  sorry  you  took  him  away  from  Helen.  I  'm  serious 
about  this  match,  you  see.  It  would  almost  reconcile  me  to 
giving  Donald  up." 

The  young  man's  look  at  his  old  friend  was  certainly  criti- 

23 


Angela's    Business 


cal  now.  And  he  refused  to  feel  in  the  least  sorry  for  his  in 
terference  with  her  cool  eu-marital  scheme.  For,  taking  even 
the  most  liberal  view,  Modernity  was  for  Moderns;  probably 
always  would  be.  What  under  the  sun  did  a  fellow  like  Don 
ald  want  with  a  wife  who  would  prove  him  wrong  about  a 
cosine,  and  keep  him  up  jawing  about  Mrs.  Oilman  till  two 
o'clock  in  the  morning? 

From  the  Turkish  air  of  the  Redman  tie,  Charles  Garrott 
passed  out  into  the  bracing  November  night.  Two  blocks 
farther  along,  he  passed  the  door  of  another  club,  a  completely 
male  one.  And  down  the  wide  steps,  between  the  columnar 
lights,  there  came  shambling  a  large,  loose-jointed,  round- 
faced  man  in  a  brown  felt  hat,  and  joined  him. 

"Well,  Charlie." 

"Good  evening,  Mr.  Wing." 

Having  caught  stride,  the  two  men  walked  on  in  silence. 
This  Mr.  Wing  was  Mary's  Uncle  Oliver,  an  interesting  indi 
vidual  in  his  way,  member  of  the  City  School  Board,  and  in 
the  business  world  known  sometimes  as  a  "capitalist,"  some 
times  again  as  a  loan-shark.  When  in  the  vein,  Mr.  Wing 
could  be  conversational  enough,  and  his  morose  air  at  pres 
ent  indicated  that  he  had  lost  not  less  than  three  dollars  at 
the  Bellevue  Club  card- tables  this  evening. 

When  they  had  proceeded  some  three  blocks  in  total  silence, 
Charles,  emerging  from  his  brown  study,  said  idly:  — 

"  Mr.  Wing,  do  you  believe  in  the  Woman's  Movement?  " 

Hearing  no  reply  to  his  query,  he  glanced  around,  and  found 
Mr.  Wing  slowly  shaking  his  head.  It  seemed  to  be  a  time- 
gaining  sort  of  shake;  it  undertook  to  hold  the  floor  tempo 
rarily,  promising  good  sound  argument  to  follow.  Charles 
waited.  But  Uncle  Oliver  did  not  speak;  he  only  continued 

24 


Angela's    Business 


to  shake  his  head,  slowly  and  profoundly.  And  when  the 
two  had  traversed  half  a  block  in  this  provisional  sort  of  way, 
the  money-lender  suddenly  turned  up  the  steps  of  the  house 
where  he  lived,  still  shaking  his  head. 

Halfway  up  the  steps,  he  looked  back  over  his  shoulder, 
and  said:  — 

"Well,  good-night,  Charlie." 

"Good-night,  Mr.  Wing." 


Ill 


THE  first  thing  the  author  did,  on  opening  the  door 
of  the  Studio,  was  to  look  at  the  clock.    Big  Bill 
pointed  to  but  five  minutes  of  eleven.  Good!  There 
remained  a  clean  hour  and  a  half  before  he  would  have  to 
cease  work  and  go  to  bed,  to  wake  up  a  private  tutor. 

All  the  lethargy  of  the  earlier  evening  seemed  to  have  van 
ished  now,  under  the  strong  reverse  stimulus  of  the  Redman- 
tie  Club.  Having  turned  up  the  light  in  his  gas-lamp,  the 
young  man  stood  a  moment,  thinking  intently,  and  then  sat 
down  at  his  writing-table.  The  table  was  twelve  years  old, 
and  had  been  to  college  and  law-school.  It  was  worn  and 
stained,  but  still  strong,  and  bore  up,  besides  the  lamp  and 
clock,  not  only  a  large  array  of  writer's  paraphernalia,  but 
a  considerable  floating  miscellany,  too,  including  a  clipping 
or  so,  several  unanswered  letters,  a  stray  tobacco-pouch,  a 
thick  exercise-book,  and  the  particular  volume  on  Women 
he  happened  to  be  reading  at  the  moment.  Ignoring  these, 
the  proprietor  drew  from  the  back  of  his  table  drawer  a  capa 
cious  brown-paper  folder,  and  from  the  folder  plucked  three 
typewritten  sheets,  held  together  with  a  clip. 

It  was  seen  that  the  topmost  of  these  sheets  bore  a  heading: 
MARY  WING.  And  for  some  moments  the  author  of  them  sat 
in  stillness,  conning  over  the  lines  that  followed :  the  magnani 
mous  lines  he  had  prepared  with  such  pains  long  ago,  and  then 
tamely  put  to  sleep  in  a  drawer. 

He  had  composed  this  eulogy  last  winter,  to  help  Miss 
Wing  in  her  campaign  for  the  assistant  principalship  of  the 

26 


Angela's    Business 


High  School.  His  plan,  of  which  she  knew  nothing  to  this  day, 
had  been  cunning  and  complete.  First  he  would  get  this 
"write-up"  into  the  "Persons  in  the  Foreground"  depart 
ment  of  "Willcox's,"  the  famous  and  enormously  circulated 
weekly;  then  he  would  have  the  "Post"  reprint  it;  finally  he 
would  induce  all  the  local  papers  to  print  glowing  editorials 
demanding,  "Is  this  prophetess  to  be  without  honor  in  her 
own  country?"  Unquestionably  a  most  helpful  plan;  but 
characteristically,  Mary  had  not  waited  for  it.  By  some 
"pull"  she  had,  she  had  put  her  little  matter  through  months 
ahead  of  schedule,  and  Judge  Blenso  had  just  finished  typing 
the  "write-up,"  late  one  winter's  afternoon,  when  Charles 
was  summoned  to  the  telephone  to  be  greeted  by  the  first 
woman  assistant  principal  in  history.  He,  of  course,  had  been 
delighted  with  her  success.  And  yet  —  had  he  not  felt  even 
then  that  the  episode  was  typical  of  a  positively  manly  in 
dependence? 

Now  he  read  over  his  forgotten  words  with  cool  judi- 
ciality:  — 

Her  name  was  in  newspaper  headlines  before  she  was  out  of  her 
teens;  and  many  and  many  a  time  since.  She  wished  to  be  a  doc 
tor,  and  the  Medical  School  would  not  take  her  in.  And  shortly 
this  slim  girl,  with  her  sweetly-cut  chin  and  ethereal  eyes,  had 
raised  the  whole  State  on  the  issue  of  principle  thus  thrown  down: 
Did  a  woman  have  the  right  to  study,  or  not?  She  stormed  the 
courts  for  an  injunction,  she  set  the  legislature  by  the  ears  for  a 
special  act.  The  story  of  her  personal  interview  with  the  Governor, 
at  the  height  of  the  disturbance,  is  often  told  to  this  day;  but  never 
by  any  friend  of  the  Governor's.  And  then,  when  she  was  within  a 
step  of  winning  the  long  fight,  her  father  died  suddenly  and  she 
faced  the  immediate  necessity  of  earning  a  living. 

Farther  along,  the  author's  eye  found  the  particular  passage 
that  had  been  in  his  mind  from  the  start,  the  part  about  the 
National  League  for  Education  Reform.  Having  recounted 

27 


Angela's    Business 


how  the  bequest  of  Rufus  B.  Zecker's  millions  had  "assured 
the  permanence  and  ultimate  triumph  of  the  League's 
programme,"  the  generous  "puff"  went  on:  — 

What  the  National  League  contemplates  is  nothing  less  than 
the  remaking  of  our  entire  educational  system,  on  the  basis  of  a 
new  perception  of  truth,  namely:  that  education  is,  not  learning 
at  all,  but  purely  the  process  of  fitting  the  individual  for  effectual 
relations  with  his  (or  her)  environment.  With  the  League's  prop 
aganda  to  that  end,  under  the  brilliant  leadership  of  Horace  Gur- 
ney  Ames,  Miss  Wing  has  been  closely  associated  for  the  past  seven 
years.  Her  work  here  has  been,  indeed,  the  dominant  part  of  her 
career.  .  .  . 

The  dominant  part  of  her  life,  he  would  better  have  writ 
ten.  And  that  was  precisely  the  trouble. 

The  sheets  dropped  from  the  young  man's  hands,  and  he 
gazed  unwinking  at  the  green  translucence  of  his  lamp.  His 
mind  skipped  back  to  a  day  in  early  September,  when  Mary 
and  her  mother  had  come  home  from  their  two  weeks  in  the 
metropolis  —  Mrs.  Wing  still  looking  rather  crushed  from  the 
overwhelming  rush  of  New  York,  Mary  radiant  with  the  hope 
that  before  long  she  might  go  back  to  New  York,  to  stay 
there  the  rest  of  her  life.  For  on  that  journey  she  had  abruptly 
learned  that  the  League  directors  had  their  eyes  upon  her 
with  reference  to  their  General  Secretaryship,  which  was  to 
become  vacant  next  March.  Undoubtedly,  the  brilliant  Dr. 
Ames  had  sounded  her  pretty  directly  on  this  point.  Un 
doubtedly,  too,  it  would  be  another  long  step  up  for  Mary, 
making  her,  in  the  educational  world  at  least,  a  figure  of  na 
tional  consequence.  Once  again,  of  course,  Charles  Garrott 
had  been  delighted.  And  yet  it  was  clear  to  him  now  that 
his  Modernity  had  first  felt  conservative  reactions  on  that 
very  day. 

Through  the  shut  door  of  the  bedroom  there  came  a  gentle 

28 


Angela's    Business 


snoring.  After  the  day's  secretarial  labor,  Judge  Blenso  slept 
well.  Charles  rose  and  walked  his  carpet,  much  worn  with  a 
writer's  meditative  pacing. 

The  wisest  of  us  generalize  from  the  instances  that  lie  near 
est  us.  How  far  this  young  man's  views  on  Woman  had  been 
moulded  by  contrasting  the  maturing  uselessness  of  his  pupil 
Grace  Chorister,  say,  with  the  fine  efikience  of  Miss  Wing, 
he  himself  could  not  have  said.  But  at  least  he  knew  that 
Mary  Wing  had  long  embodied  the  best  of  the  whole  Move 
ment  for  him.  He  had  held  her  up,  in  season  and  out,  as  a 
perfect  example  of  the  New  Woman  at  her  best.  And  Mary 
Wing  was  that,  he  declared  it  now;  the  real  thing,  as  different 
as  possible  from  the  hollow  shams  of  the  Redmantle  Club. 
Of  course  —  of  course  —  she  had  a  right,  just  the  same  right 
that  a  man  had,  to  put  away  her  mother,  her  family  and 
friends,  and  follow  away  the  star  of  her  work.  But  ...  if  only 
she  showed  a  little  more  appreciation  of  values  apart  from  My 
Career;  if  only  you  could  imagine  Mary  sometimes  speaking 
of  Being  a  Daughter  and  Being  a  Sister. 

Yes;  those  were  the  words  that  rose  naturally  in  his  mind. 
Beyond  doubt,  Mary  Wing's  cousin  from  the  backwoods  had 
given  a  push  to  Charles  Garrott's  thought;  he  would  have 
been  the  first  to  admit  that.  Not  merely  had  Miss  Angela 
happened  to  body  forth,  in  the  most  pleasing,  unconscious 
way,  that  very  type  which  all  Redman  tiers  so  derided;  but 
further,  she  had  artlessly  used  a  phrase  which,  to  his  authori 
tative  mind,  had  helped  to  scientize  her  case  at  a  bound.  For 
of  course  the  most  scientific  modern  demand  as  to  Miss  An 
gela's  class  came  simply  down  to  this,  that  all  Temporary 
Spinsters  should  have  some  regular  business  to  occupy  their 
hands  and  heads.  Very  well,  then,  laughed  this  little  girl: 
What  about  the  Business  of  Making  Homes? 

29 


Angela's    Business 


The  phrase,  connoting  so  much  more  than  mere  "keeping 
house,"  was  worthy  of  a  writer.  And  when  had  this  other  doc 
trine  grown  so  strong  and  sure,  that  the  Business  of  Making 
a  Career,  of  Developing  My  Ego,  was  necessarily  the  biggest 
business  in  the  world? 

In  the  silence  of  the  large  dim  Studio,  the  young  man  stood 
stroking  the  bridge  of  his  nose,  somewhat  worriedly.  It  was 
a  well-cut  bridge,  and  held  three  brown  freckles. 

It  occurred  to  him,  not  for  the  first  time,  that  he  himself 
was  helping  to  spread  the  egoistic  doctrine  referred  to.  He 
remembered  his  novel,  in  short:  his  Old  Novel,  as  he  already 
called  it,  albeit  it  was  his  only  one,  and  he  and  Judge  Blenso 
had  completed  it  but  two  weeks  ago,  to  a  day.  This  novel,  in 
manuscript,  was  now  in  the  hands  of  the  great  house  of  Will- 
cox  Brothers  Company,  whom  Charles,  after  due  thought, 
had  selected  as  his  publishers.  Willcox's  offer,  and  the  con 
tract,  might  come  by  any  mail  now. 

To  the  writing,  and  infinite  rewriting,  of  this  first  work  had 
gone  the  scant  leisure  of  more  than  four  years.  Its  title-page 
read:  "BONDWOMEN:  A  Novel  of  Modern  Marriage."  (The 
Judge  had  first  typed  the  title  BANDWOMEN,  as  if  it  were  a 
Novel  of  Female  Bandsmen,  which  had  annoyed  Charles  very 
much.)  Considering  the  cunning  with  which  he  had  labored 
to  "keep  the  story  moving,"  it  could  scarcely  be  doubted, 
that  "Bondwomen"  was  destined  to  have  a  large  sale.  And 
that,  in  fact,  was  just  the  danger;  that  was  precisely  the 
reason  that  he,  the  author,  felt  this  sense  of  moral  responsi 
bility.  Young  married  women,  young  impressionable  Tem 
porary  Spinsters  everywhere,  would  soon  be  reading  this  book, 
and  moulding  their  characters  upon  it.  He,  of  course,  had 
never  preached  any  of  the  wilder,  Trevenna  Modernity.  But 
all  the  same  .  .  .  That  passage  there,  for  instance,  where 

30 


Angela's    Business 


Lily  Stender,  in  the  lonely  vigil  on  the  terrace,  reviews  the 
status  of  Parasitic  Woman  and  decides  to  leave  her  husband, 
and  grow  her  Soul:  certainly  the  probability  was  that  intelli 
gent  women  all  over  the  world  (he  would  have  to  grant  Brit 
ish  and  Colonial  rights  at  once,  no  doubt)  would  shortly  be 
devouring  that  keen,  advanced  Thinking;  and,  it  was  to  be 
feared,  a  general  exodus  from  Homes  would  follow.  In  his 
mind's  eye,  Charles  saw  armies  of  women  rising  and  pack 
ing  Gladstone  bags  in  the  stilly  night,  and  stealing  forth, 
just  as  the  dawn  whitened  the  east,  to  join  Lily  Stender  in 
lifting  marriage  to  the  Higher  Plane,  by  means  of  Commerce. 

He  had  put  much  of  Mary  Wing  into  Lily;  he  knew  that. 
But  then  he  had  n't  taken  it  in,  in  those  days,  how  serious 
Mary  was  as  to  —  what  was  the  word  of  that  mad  ass  Hod- 
ger?  —  fiercely  hacking  away  whatever  impeded  her  in  her 
Self-Development. 

Had  not  the  moment  rather  come  when  some  one,  some 
all-seeing  and  completely  modern  authority,  should  reso 
lutely  sound  the  Note  of  Warning?  Was  it  so  sure  that 
careering  Egoism  had  anything  more  valuable  to  give  the 
world  than  the  old  virtues  which  it  flouted?  Beauty,  charm, 
and  cheer,  tenderness,  selfless  sympathy,  all  that  mothering 
meant:  was  it  not  ridiculous  to  ignore  these  enormous  con 
tributions  to  the  work  of  the  world,  because,  forsooth,  they 
could  not  show  an  immediate  cash  return? 

Now  all  the  clocks  of  the  city  —  all,  that  is,  that  were  right, 
and  had  bells  —  began  to  sound  midnight.  But  the  absorbed 
author  and  authority  paced  on,  aware  of  no  sound.  He  was 
thinking,  with  something  like  excitement,  of  his  next  novel, 
"Bondwomen's"  greater  successor,  for  which  he  was  now  just 
struggling  to  fix  his  point  of  view,  straighten  out  his  "moral 
plot,"  by  means  of  notes  in  the  old  French  exercise-book. 


Angela's    Business 


Long  as  he  had  sensed  a  certain  spiritual  starkness  in  his  first 
novel,  long  as  he  had  looked  forward  to  his  second,  the  vital 
questions  concerning  his  new  "line"  had  never  yet  been 
settled  in  his  mind.  .  .  .  Well,  suppose  that,  with  a  frank, 
courageous  change  of  front,  he  employed  the  New  Novel  to 
sound  the  wholesome  Note  of  Warning;  suppose  that  he 
boldly  took  a  Home-Maker  for  his  heroine,  for  example,  and 
justified  her  —  justified  her  scientifically  —  as  no  modern 
thinker  had  ever  justified  her  before.  .  .  . 

The  striking  idea  was  not  a  new  one  altogether;  but  its 
possibilities,  suddenly  opening  out,  rapidly  grew  more  and 
more  interesting.  Unfortunately,  before  it  could  be  developed 
in  even  the  smallest  degree,  it  was  abruptly  interfered  with 
by  a  most  unwelcome  intrusion  of  the  practical. 

Charles  Garrott  was  a  tutor.  He  had  turned  eagerly  to  his 
table,  to  capture  certain  phrases  at  least,  while  they  were  yet 
hot  in  his  mind.  But  now,  chillingly,  his  eye  fell  upon  that 
other  exercise-book,  lying  there  publicly  atop  the  volume  on 
Women.  At  a  glance  that  book  looked  exactly  like  its  sister, 
kept  hidden  in  a  drawer;  but  in  fact  there  was  a  boundless 
distinction.  No  hand  had  overwritten  the  label  of  that  book 
there  raising  it  to  the  peerage,  as  it  were.  That  book  was  just  a 
common  book:  "French  Composition."  And  it  was  known  to 
contain  uncorrected  exercises,  forty  sentences  at  least,  which 
must  be  tutorially  attended  to,  before  Charles  Garrott  slept 
this  night. 

There  followed  a  brief  struggle;  but  it  could  end  in  only 
one  way.  Charles,  with  no  good  grace,  sat  at  his  table  and 
clutched  up  a  fat  blue  pencil. 

It  was  a  galling  occurrence.  Yet  a  man,  of  course,  must  live, 
whether  cynical  Frenchmen  can  see  the  necessity  or  not. 
And  the  tutoring,  say  what  you  would  against  it,  was  the  best 

32 


Angela's    Business 


net  result  of  a  gradual  sifting  process,  designed  to  find  what 
would  yield  the  largest  amount  of  money  for  the  least  amount 
of  work.  So  had  Charles  Garrott  bent  his  life,  to  be  a  writer. 
Bred  casually  to  the  law,  he  had  thrown  over  the  encour 
aging  beginnings  of  a  practice  directly  he  found  that  clients 
expected  to  take  all  a  man's  time,  including  nights  even. 
Teaching  he  did  not  love,  and  yet,  as  he  had  enjoyed  an  excel 
lent  education,  it  "came  easier"  than  anything  else.  His 
boast  to  friends,  indeed,  was  that  he  could  teach  anything, 
whether  he  had  ever  heard  of  it  before  or  not;  and  it  was  a 
fact  that  at  a  private  school  once  —  years  ago,  in  the  interval 
between  college  and  law-school  —  he  had  taught  Spanish  on 
three  days'  notice,  keeping,  as  he  said,  precisely  one  page  and 
a  half  ahead  of  his  class  the  whole  year  through.  But  teach 
ing  Ancient  Languages  at  Blaines  College  was  found,  upon  fair 
experiment,  to  involve  too  many  papers  in  the  Studio,  con 
ferences  with  boys,  annoying  teachers'  meetings,  and  similar 
invasions  of  a  writer's  privacy.  Besides,  it  was  not  nearly 
lucrative  enough,  after  the  coming  of  the  Judge,  who  drew 
twenty-five  dollars  a  month  as  Secretary,  besides  his  keep. 

Thus  had  evolved  the  private  tutor,  with  a  waiting-list. 
Thus  it  was  that  probably  the  only  living  compeer  of  the  lady 
in  Sweden  must  put  aside  his  Thinking  to-night,  to  peruse 
and  criticize  such  stuff  as  this :  — 

16.  Bon  jour,  Monsieur  le  Curb  I  Avez  vous  vu  le  grand  cheval  de 
mon  oncle,  le  me'decin  ? 

Oh,  detestable! 

The  two  French  exercise-books  —  twins  with  what  a  dif 
ference  !  —  had  started  life  equally  as  the  property  of  a  cer 
tain  dear  old  lady,  who  had  been  spurred  into  studious  en 
deavor  by  reading  in  a  magazine  that  Roman  Cato  learned 

33 


Angela's    Business 


Greek  at  eighty.  She  had  pointed  out  to  her  daughter,  quite 
excitedly,  that  she  herself  was  but  seventy-one,  and  French 
was  easier,  besides;  and  that  evening  she  had  telephoned  to 
Charles.  The  old  lady  wrote  a  very  neat  but  virtually  illeg 
ible  hand,  employing  the  finest  Spencerian  pen  ever  seen :  — 

23.  Non,  petit  Henri,  non;  wire  sosur  Marie  riest  pasjamais  aussi 
mechante  que  wus  f times  hier  soir. 

The  author's  golden  moments  fled. 

Nevertheless,  before  he  went  to  bed,  Charles  Garrott  did 
produce  from  his  drawer  that  other  private  book  of  his  (the 
front  part  of  which,  also,  was  stuffed  with  observations  about 
the  Cure  and  naughty  little  Henry).  Here,  for  what  time  he 
had,  the  young  modern  set  down,  on  a  fresh  page,  preliminary 
Notes,  such  as,  indeed,  contrasted  oddly  with  those  inscribed 
in  the  earlier  evening.  And  when  he  shut  up  his  book  to  go  to 
bed,  he  did  it  with  an  air,  and  spoke  aloud:  — 

"Let'em  bite  on  that!" 

From  his  tone,  you  might  have  supposed  that  all  the  Red- 
mantlers  of  the  world  would  come  to-morrow  and  look  at  these 
novel  words  of  his.  That,  of  course,  was  far  from  being  the 
case:  these  were  his  inviolable  secrets.  Yet  so  real  were  his 
imaginings  to  the  young  man,  so  reactionary  seemed  even  the 
thought  of  a  Novel  of  Warning,  that  an  unmistakable  defiance 
had  tinged  his  voice  as  he  spoke.  And  particularly  did  this 
defiant  air  seem  to  extend  to  his  excellent  friend,  Mary  Wing. 

Charles  Garrott  went  to  bed  that  night  thinking  defiantly 
of  Mary  (and  almost  tenderly  of  Mary's  so  different  cousin) ; 
and  on  succeeding  afternoons,  when  he  took  his  walks  abroad, 
he  did  not  turn  his  steps,  as  was  frequently  his  habit,  toward 
streets  where  the  advanced  assistant  principal  was  likely  to 
be  met. 

34 


Angela's    Business 


None  the  less,  he  did  meet  Mary  on  the  street,  before  the 
week  was  out;  and  then  the  case  was  such  that  the  secret  sense 
of  disloyalty  faded,  and  Charles  saw  that  he  had  been  right 
all  along.  Mary,  in  short,  was  found  parading  Washington 
Street,  where  the  largest  possible  number  of  people  would  be 
certain  to  see  her,  in  the  company  of  the  too  celebrated  Miss 
Trevenna.  And  then  the  authority  thought  of  the  Home- 
Making  cousin  more  sympathetically  than  ever;  though  he 
did  not  guess  that  the  cousin,  chancing  to  see  him  and  his 
ladies  from  an  upstairs  window,  was  also  thinking,  not  un- 
sympathetically,  of  him. 


IV 


IT  was  not  Charles's  fault  that  he  did  not  see  Miss  Angela, 
to-day,  as  she  saw  him;  the  sight  of  her  would  have  been 
agreeable  to  him,  at  that  moment  particularly.  But  the 
window  from  which  the  pretty  cousin  looked  out  happened  to 
be  a  considerable  distance  away;  and  she  gathered  nothing 
of  his  sentiments. 

Dr.  Flower's  house,  indeed,  was  not  on  Washington  Street 
at  all,  but  on  Center,  a  very  different  street.  Center,  however, 
had  this  merit,  that  it  stood  back  to  back  with  Washington, 
and  as  the  Washington  Street  residences  were  mostly  "de 
tached"  at  this  point,  the  rear  of  the  Flower  house  com 
manded  a  certain  view  of  that  handsome  thoroughfare;  not 
much  of  it,  of  course,  —  an  oblique  slice  cut  in  between  houses. 
The  distance,  as  has  been  said,  was  rather  great  for  eyes 
less  keen  than  the  lynx's.  But  a  pair  of  opera-glasses  at  the 
parted  curtain  discreetly  bridged  the  space,  and  brought  a 
few  feet  of  the  Street  of  the  Rich  under  the  legitimate  obser 
vation  of  the  less  materially  successful. 

Now,  when  she  had  leveled  her  glasses  upon  the  three 
figures  —  for  Charles,  at  this  trying  moment,  was  escorting 
two  ladies  down  the  promenade  —  Miss  Angela  felt,  to  say 
truth,  a  little  lonely  and  out  of  things.  Not  only  was  Mr. 
Garrott  the  first  man  she  had  met  in  the  new  city,  but  she  had 
met  him  only,  as  it  must  now  have  seemed  to  her,  like  ships 
passing  in  the  night.  Not  dreaming  how  she  had  been  figuring 
in  his  thought,  the  girl  felt,  humanly  and  femininely,  a  little 
depressed.  And  when  she  presently  reflected,  "I  suppose 

36 


Angela's    Business 


this  is  the  time  he  goes  down  to  lunch  every  day ! "  —  the  small 
thought  was  actually  a  cheering  one  to  her,  presenting,  as  it 
were,  some  point  of  contact  with  Washington  Street  and 
the  pleasant  happenings  that  seemed  to.  go  on  over  there. 

Such,  in  fine,  was  the  sheer  enchantment  of  distance.  To 
Mr.  Garrott  himself,  this  public  promenade  was  as  far  from  a 
pleasant  happening  as  could  well  have  been  conceived. 

When  he  had  looked  over  the  street  just  now,  and  seen  who 
his  old  friend's  companion  was,  Charles  had,  indeed,  experi 
enced  a  decided  shock.  On  the  heels  of  that,  he  had  had  a 
moment  of  distinct  uncertainty.  Ought  he  to  cross  and  join 
this  remarkable  pair,  or  should  he  avert  his  eyes?  The 
etiquette  here  was  unknown  to  him,  the  business  without 
precedent  in  his  experience. 

There  was  more  than  etiquette  involved,  of  course.  While 
this  particular  city  was  alive  to  contemporary  currents,  and 
even  had  its  little  Redmantle  Club,  it  still  considered  the 
Church  of  England  marriage  service  a  sound  start  for  a  union, 
and  associated  contrary  theories  exclusively  with  inferior 
morals.  To  walk  Washington  Street  with  Miss  Trevenna  was, 
as  it  were,  to  wound  and  rebuke  the  city's  old-fashioned  pre 
judices.  But  that,  without  doubt,  was  the  very  reason  Mary 
Wing  was  doing  it. 

Charles  had  crossed  the  street.  Mary  Wing  saw  him,  half 
way  over.  Not  suspecting  how  his  unfavorable  scrutiny  had 
been  upon  her  for  some  time  past,  she  smiled  a  bright  wel 
come. 

He  was  presented  to  Miss  Trevenna.  She  acknowledged 
his  greeting  in  an  absent,  fluty  voice,  and  turned  on  him 
briefly  a  face  of  almost  nun-like  serenity,  palely  lit  by  a  pair 
of  starry  eyes.  He  found  her  altogether  a  mystic-looking  crea 
ture,  not  easily  associated  with  things  wild  and  gay. 

37 


Angela's    Business 


"I  was  just  telling  Flora  about  the  Education  Reform 
League,"  continued  Mary,  in  her  calm  tones. 

But  Charles,  after  all,  had  no  great  chance  that  day  to 
show  his  fearlessness  of  mere  public  opinion.  Hardly  had  he 
passed  out  of  Miss  Angela  Flower's  range  of  vision,  when  the 
walk  of  three  ended,  if  the  episode  did  not.  It  was  Miss 
Trevenna's  corner,  it  seemed;  she  could  not  be  persuaded 
to  go  farther. 

"I'd  turn  with  you,  but  I  have  a  class,"  said  Mary,  disap 
pointed,  and  a  little  surprised,  it  seemed.  "I  wish  you'd  stroll 
on  with  me!" 

"  I  've  something  to  do  at  my  room  —  some  business  to 
attend  to,  really." 

"  Then  let 's  walk  this  afternoon,  do !  Shall  I  come  for  you?  " 

"How  nice  of  you!  I'd  like  to  so  much." 

On  which  the  girl  was  gone,  stepping  on  light  feet  down  the 
side  street.  In  the  momentary  lapse  of  talk,  Charles's  eye 
went  after  her.  He  saw  something  mysteriously  withdrawn 
in  that  gray  figure,  something  set  forever  apart. 

And  then,  while  he  and  his  friend  walked  on  six  steps  in 
silence,  the  young  man  wondered,  with  a  sudden  fierce  annoy 
ance,  what  Mary  thought  she  was  doing  exactly. 

Of  Miss  Tievenna  he  knew  only  what  the  world  knew, 
which  was  little  enough.  One  of  several  daughters  of  a  pros 
perous  family,  she  had  been  known  as  a  reserved,  and  some 
what  dreamy  girl,  indifferent  to  social  life,  and  much  addicted 
to  curling  up  at  home  with  books  of  poetry;  Shelley's  poetry 
or  some  such  bewildering  stuff;  altogether  a  queer  person. 
She  even  wrote  poetry  herself,  it  was  damagingly  alleged  after 
the  crash,  and  it  was  recalled  that  in  women's  meetings  she 
had  sometimes  risen  and  expressed,  in  the  quietest  sort  of 
way,  ideas  which  disconcerted  even  the  Hodgers  of  her  day. 

38 


Angela's    Business 


Duly  there  had  come  to  town  the  entirely  typical  dashing 
stranger:  Robert  McKittrick,  this  one  was,  an  architect  in 
government  employ,  who  came  with  excellent  letters.  Mr. 
McKittrick  was  seen  in  public,  a  time  or  two,  with  Mr.  Tre- 
venna's  quietly  peculiar  daughter;  it  was  known  that  a  sane 
and  sound  Mrs.  McKittrick  existed  in  Philadelphia,  or  some 
such  place;  there  may  have  been  a  little  mild  talk,  but  it 
was  very  little  and  very  mild.  And  then  one  fine  day,  the 
town  was  startled  with  the  news  that  these  two  had  taken  the 
great  jump  together,  by  the  last  night  mail  train  north. 

It  was  the  sort  of  thing  you  read  about  in  every  novel  now 
adays,  especially  if  written  by  an  Englishman.  But  this  time, 
unluckily,  it  had  really  happened,  and  in  a  community  not 
too  large  for  a  homogeneous  public  opinion.  Moreover,  life 
does  differ  just  a  little  from  the  novels,  in  that  it  possesses  no 
invisible  author  to  shut  the  book  splendidly,  the  moment  the 
case  is  proved.  Life  did  not  leave  Mr.  McKittrick  and  Miss 
Trevenna  forever  singing  in  the  honeymoon  heyday.  It 
merely  kept  them  in  the  back  of  the  town's  mind  for  two  years, 
a  tidbit  or  a  terrible  warning,  according  as  you  looked  at  it, 
and  then  it  brought  Miss  Trevenna  back  to  us  again,  alone. 

It  might  have  seemed  the  oldest  and  the  vulgarest  story 
in  the  world.  The  weak,  trusting  maiden,  the  handsome, 
promissory  villain,  the  flight,  the  rude  awakening  and  Con 
viction  of  Sin,  and  then  the  piteous  Return  (Act  III,  Curtain) 
to  Forgiveness,  a  black  shawl,  Quick  Decline,  and  Death: 
these  things  have  wrung  the  gallery's  scalding  tears  from  far 
ther  back  than  we  can  remember.  But  well  Charles  Garrott 
understood  that  Miss  Trevenna's  "case"  had  nothing  to  do 
with  this  cheap  business.  He  thought  it  right  enough,  of 
course  (theoretically  speaking) ,  that  Mary  Wing  should  sym 
pathize  with  a  sister  in  distress.  And  yet  .  .  .  Well,  no  one, 

39 


Angela's    Business 


certainly,  had  "deceived"  or  "betrayed"  Miss  Trevenna. 
Quite  probably  she  had  proposed  the  excursion  herself,  like 
one  of  the  glorious  heroines  at  the  moment  educating  British 
maidenhood.  Miss  Trevenna  had  gone  with  her  lover  because 
she  had  a  Right  to  Her  Happiness;  she  had  gone  to  fulfil  the 
Unwritten  Law  of  Her  Being;  she  had  gone  to  Strike  a  Blow 
for  Freedom.  It  was  absurd  to  look  for  remorse  in  a  black 
shawl  here. 

And  still,  glancing  after  that  oddly  cloistral  figure,  the 
young  man  felt  that  the  net  effect  was  not  so  different  from 
the  sorry  old  melodrama,  after  all. 

He  spoke  suddenly,  with  a  manner  proving  that  he  did  not 
pride  himself  on  wearing  a  mask  for  nothing :  — 

"Did  you  know  that  a  woman's  occipital  condyles  are  less 
voluminous  than  a  man's,  —  yes,  considerably  so,  —  while 
her  zygomatic  arches  are  more  regular?  Well,  then,  take  my 
word  for  it,  for  they  are." 

Miss  Wing  rewarded  him  by  coming  out  of  her  abstraction 
with  a  laugh.  She  asked  him  in  what  great  tome  he  had  learned 
that  fascinating  fact. 

"Ah,  that's  my  secret.  By  the  way,"  said  Charles,  "how's 
that  charming  little  cousin  of  yours,  Miss  Angela?" 

He  spoke  in  his  most  natural  voice,  as  if  no  thought  of  con 
flict  had  ever  risen  between  him  and  the  best  of  New  Women. 
All  the  same,  the  cousin's  name  fell  rather  oddly  on  the  ad 
vanced  air. 

Mary  Wing  said  that  she  had  n't  seen  Angela  since  the  Red- 
mantle  Club ;  she  said  she  must  try  to  go  there  this  afternoon. 
He  remarked  that  being  pulled  up  by  the  roots,  and  trans 
planted,  was  hard  on  the  young,  but  that  Miss  Angela  would 
make  friends  fast  enough.  Having  a  passion  for  biography, 
especially  the  biographies  of  women,  he  wanted  particularly  to 

40 


Angela's    Business 


learn  something  about  this  girl,  who  had  given  him,  Charles 
Garrott,  a  phrase.  But  the  talk  now  took  another  turn;  it 
was  n't  a  day  for  discussing  Home-Making  clearly.  Miss 
Hodger  and  Professor  Clarence  Pollock  went  walking  by, 
across  the  sunny  street,  and  Mary,  having  greeted  them 
much  too  pleasantly  to  suit  his  taste,  said:  — 

"  Do  you  know  this  is  the  third  time  I  Ve  seen  those  two  to 
gether  lately?  It  begins  to  look  like  an  affair." 

"What!"  he  cried,  disgusted.  "Why!  — why,  she'd  bite 
his  head  off  in  a  week!" 

And  then,  while  she  protested  argumentatively,  he  was 
silent  for  a  space,  struck  with  the  thought  that  here  was  an 
opening  not  unsuited  to  his  need. 

While  the  plan  for  his  new  work  was  by  no  means  settled 
yet,  beyond  doubt  this  matter  of  Miss  Trevenna  had  given 
strong  impetus  to  the  conservative  wave.  And  meanwhile, 
there  was  the  personal  side.  To  lecture  Mary  Wing  openly 
was  a  thing  scarcely  to  be  thought  of.  Yet,  having  felt  the 
unmistakable  reactions  himself,  the  young  man  found  himself 
itching,  literally  itching,  to  get  his  hands  on  Mary  and  make 
her  react  a  little,  too. 

He  said  in  his  pleasantest  way:  —  "Did  it  ever  strike  you, 
by  the  way,  that  she's  got  the  propaganda  in  the  purely 
archaic  form?" 

"Archaic?  — Hodger!" 

"  She  still  imagines  that  the  object  of  this  Movement  is  to 
make  women  more  like  men.  Of  course,  the  object  of  the 
Movement  is  to  make  women  more  like  themselves." 

Her  silence  seemed  to  applaud  his  epigram.  Charles  felt 
that  it  was  generous  of  him  to  add:  "I  bagged  that  some 
where.  Sounds  like  Havelock  Ellis  to  me.  But,"  he  added, 
frankly,  "  I  Ve  improved  the  wording.  Why  do  you  say  I  'm 


Angela's    Business 


unjust  to  her?  On  the  contrary,  I  'd  be  delighted  to  fork  over 
all  those  rights  of  hers  she  was  demanding  the  other  night. 
By  the  by,  what  are  Hodger's  rights  exactly?" 

"I  suppose  she's  entitled  to  human  rights,  even  if  you,  as  a 
man,  don't  find  her  especially  attractive." 

Charles  winced,  and  then  smiled  faintly. 

"Human  rights  —  security  and  protection,  life,  liberty,  and 
the  pursuit  of  happiness?  She's  got  them,  has  n't  she?  I 
thought  what  Hodger  was  yelling  for  was  special  privileges, 
rather  exceptional  privileges  in  the  way  of  freeing  her  Ego 
from—" 

"As  a  woman,  she  has  n't  even  all  the  human  rights,  you 
know  very  well.  As  a  human  being,  she  would  feel  that  she 's 
entitled  to  exceptional  rights,  because  she's  an  exceptional 
being.  She  would  take  the  ground  that  her  public  work  — " 

"She  would  take  that  ground,  of  course.  But,"  said 
Charles,  amiably,  "possibly  others  would  not  agree  with  her. 
That  is  just  the  trouble,  is  n't  it?  The  doctrine  that  the  world 
belongs  to  Exceptional  People  has  that  fatal  weakness." 

"In  your  opinion,"  she  qualified  him  —  "what?" 

"  We  'd  need  a  great  board,  a  sort  of  Super-Supreme  Court 
of  really  godlike  understanding,  to  tell  us  which  are  the  Ex 
ceptional  People." 

Seeing  that  he  had  her  temporarily  at  a  loss,  Charles  con 
tinued  his  agreeable  prattle:  — 

"And  hand  them  out  their  little  certificates,  you  know.  I 
remember,  this  chap  Chesterton  said  a  fairly  bright  thing  once 
—  a  little  piece  I  read  somewhere.  He  said  he  'd  always  wanted 
to  hear  somebody  —  anybody  —  preach  'personal  liberty' 
with  one  small  qualification.  Said  he'd  waited  and  waited  to 
hear  one  person  state  the  creed  something  like  this:  '  Men  and 
women  of  genius  must  not  be  bound  by  ordinary  laws.  But  I 

42 


Angela's    Business 


am  NOT  a  man  of  genius,  and  therefore  I  will  keep  the  law.' 
Chesterton  said  he'd  been  waiting  for  years." 

He  was  aware  that  Miss  Wing  was  regarding  him  in  a  curi 
ous  sort  of  way,  and  now  she  said,  directly:  — 

"Do  you  know,  this  does  n't  sound  like  you  at  all?" 

"Does  n't  it?  —  why  not?  I've  always  believed  in  taking 
a  good  look  around,  every  now  and  then.  Constant  discus 
sion,"  said  Charles,  "  constant  canvassing  of  rival  theories  — " 

"Well,  those  theories  are  only  good  for  people  who  think 
that  the  way  to  advance  is  by  standing  still." 

As  she  spoke  these  positive  words,  the  two  were  overtaken 
and  passed  by  Henry  Mysinger,  of  all  people.  Mr.  Mysinger 
was  at  once  Mary's  principal  at  the  High  School  and  her  spe 
cial  adversary  in  the  Schools,  against  whom  in  years  past  she 
and  her  friend  Garrott  had  how  often  schemed  and  plotted. 
His  salute  now  was  pleasant,  with  reference  to  Charles,  but 
the  eye  he  cast  upon  his  assistant  was  distinctly  not  appro 
batory. 

As  for  Mary,  it  did  not  appear  that  she  bowed  at  all. 

"But  the  way  to  advance  is  by  advancing,"  she  continued, 
declining  to  lower  her  voice  at  all,  "  and  it 's  only  the  excep 
tional  people  who  are  capable  of  superintending  these  ad 
vances.  That,  by  the  way,"  said  the  school  teacher,  "is  pro 
bably  the  very  definition  you  are  looking  for." 

He  flatly  rejected  her  definition;  disputation  followed. 
With  increasing  pointedness,  Mary  Wing  pressed  the  case 
for  "exceptional  people,"  Self-Developing  People  who  recked 
not  of  Homes  and  being  Sisters  and  Daughters.  And  pre 
sently  she  said,  with  only  a  small  air  of  hesitation:  — 

"And  please  remember  that  enlightened  people  cannot  pos 
sibly  point  the  way  without  courage,  and  —  a  certain  amount 
of  pioneering  experiment." 

43 


Angela's    Business 


Mr.  Mysinger  had  mercifully  withdrawn  himself  around  the 
corner  of  Third  Street.  There  his  assistant  would  turn,  too, 
parting  from  her  friend;  and  really,  that  appeared  to  be  just 
as  well.  Forgetting  his  mask,  the  young  man  was  beginning 
to  betray  signs  of  exasperation.  No  more  than  Mysinger,  of 
course,  had  he  ever  been  deceived  by  the  delicate  girlishness  of 
Mary's  face;  but  the  positions  she  seemed  to  be  taking  now 
passed  anything  he  had  ever  thought  of  her  addiction  to  the 
New.  Was  this  mere  argument  for  argument's  sake?  —  or  did 
she  seriously  imagine  that  the  regeneration  of  society  was  to 
be  accomplished  by  the  antics  of  a  few  wild  female  Egoists  — 
lawless  Egoettes? 

"That's  true,  to  a  point,  of  course,"  he  said,  with  control. 
"Yet  don't  you  suspect  people  who  talk  about  their  Duty  to 
the  Race,  while  overlooking  entirely  their  duty  to  that  part 
of  the  race  which  should  be  nearest  and  dearest  to  them?" 

"  I  'd  suspect  even  more  people  who  dare  n't  call  their  souls 
their  own,  for  fear  they  might  be  criticized  by  somebody  who 
knows  nothing  about  the  facts." 

And  then  she  exclaimed  suddenly:  "Oh,  why  don't  you  say 
at  once  that  you ' ve  been  talking  at  poor  Flora  Trevenna  for 
three  blocks!" 

He  was  considerably  taken  aback,  but  spoke  calmly:  "Not 
at  all  —  or  at  least  only  in  a  general  way.  One  of  the  problems 
of  the  day,  as  we  say  at  the  Redmantle  Club." 

It  was  on  the  tip  of  his  tongue  to  say  then,  man  to  man,  as  it 
were:  "Miss  Mary,  you  have  a  great  work  ahead  of  you,  in  a 
special  field.  Is  n't  it  a  pity  to  confuse  your  good  cause  with 
one  that  perhaps  is  not  so  good?  "  But,  of  course,  you  hardly 
gave  advice  of  that  sort  to  Mary  Wing. 

"But  since  you  seem  to  invite  my  opinion,"  he  continued, 
"I  will  say  that  I  do  think  there  is  a  logical  connection  be- 

44 


Angela's    Business 


tween  Hodger's  kind  of  talk  and  Miss  Trevenna's —  ah  — 
pioneering  experiment." 

"Of  course  there  is!  Who  denied  it?"  said  she,  with  a 
forthrightness  that  increased  his  wonder  at  her. 

And  then,  as  they  came  to  a  standstill  at  the  corner,  she 
added,  after  a  grave  speculative  stare:  — 

"If  it'll  do  you  the  slightest  good,  Mr.  Garrott,  I'll  tell  you 
exactly  what  finally  decided  Flora  to  forget  her  duty  to  her 
sisters,  aunts,  uncles,  and  so  on,  as  you  consider.  Prepare 
yourself.  It  was  a  sentence  in  a  book." 

"A  sentence  in  a  book!" 

Miss  Wing  nodded,  several  times.  "As  she's  a  reserved 
girl,  and  I  appear  to  be  her  only  friend  now,  of  course  this  is  a 
confidence." 

"I  can  name  the  book!"  cried  Charles;  and  he  did. 

"However,"  he  resumed,  with  bitter  urbanity,  "if  she'd 
happened  to  read  a  few  pages  further,  she  might  have  noticed 
that  the  Lady  in  Sweden  took  every  bit  of  it  back." 

To  his  surprise,  Mary  Wing  laughed. 

"Do  you  know,  that 's  just  what  I  told  her, in  almost  those 
very  words?  And  what  do  you  suppose  she  said?  'Well,  I'm 
glad  I  did  n't  read  as  far  as  that.'  " 

Continuing  to  look  at  him  and  continuing  to  laugh,  the 
annoying  young  woman  added:  "I'm  afraid  you  don't  begin 
to  understand  women  as  yet,  Mr.  Garrott!  No,  you  don't 
begin  to.  Aurevoir!" 

It  was  noted  that  Charles's  bow  was  characterized  by  a 
certain  stiffness. 

He  went  on  his  way  alone,  to  Berringer's,  and  the  good  solid 
man-talk.  The  strongest  thought  in  his  mind  now  was  that 
the  end  of  these  things  was  not  yet.  And  here,  at  least,  he  was 
by  no  means  deceived. 

45 


Angela's    Business 


The  next  day  was  Saturday.  At  two  o'clock  on  that  day, 
each  week,  Charles  took  train  and  went  down  to  his  mother's 
place  in  the  country,  there  to  remain  till  early  Monday  morn 
ing.  This  was  an  invasion  of  his  writer's  time,  with  which  he  let 
nothing  interfere.  Returning  to  town,  and  finding  "Bond 
women"  not  yet  heard  from,  he  became  absorbed  in  a  short 
story  —  for  the  "line"  of  his  new  novel  could  not  be  laid  in 
a  day  or  a  week,  of  course  —  and  went  suddenly  upon  his 
emergency  schedule,  as  Judge  Blenso  had  named  it.  This 
schedule  called  for  the  omission  of  all  exercise,  other  than  as 
tutoring  necessitated,  and  a  general  withdrawal  from  the 
world  of  living  women.  But  he  could  n't  get  away  from  their 
Unrest,  even  so. 

Late  Thursday  afternoon,  as  he  was  working  out  the  last 
pages  of  the  time-killing  fiction,  the  door  of  the  Studio  opened 
without  a  knock,  and  Donald  Manford  walked  in.  Donald 
certainly  continued  to  make  himself  very  much  at  home  here. 

"Get  out,"  said  Charles,  tired  and  cross.  "What  do  you 
think  this  is,  a  Wheelman's  Rest?" 

The  tall  engineer  said  that  he  was  passing  and  thought 
he  'd  drop  in.  But  with  the  aid  of  an  eyebrow  he  made  known, 
over  Judge  Blenso's  snowy  head,  that  he  desired  private  con 
verse  in  the  bedroom. 

The  public  talk  between  the  two  young  men,  continuing, 
was  that  Donald  wanted  to  borrow  a  white  waistcoat  from 
Charles,  which  Charles  was  rather  reluctant  to  lend  him. 
Thus,  gradually,  they  faded  from  the  Studio,  much  to  the 
annoyance  of  the  Judge,  who  had  ceased  typing  on  purpose 
to  listen,  while  ostensibly  merely  engaged  in  picking  lint  from 
his  types  with  a  brass  pin. 

When  the  door  of  the  bedroom  was  shut,  Donald  Manford 
said,  in  low  hurried  tones:  — 

46 


Angela's    Business 


"Have  you  heard  all  this  talk  about  Mary?  I  tell  you  the 
town's  buzzing  with  it!" 

Charles  had  heard  no  talk;  he  was  disturbed,  if  scarcely 
surprised.  But  when  it  became  clear  that  the  purpose  of 
Donald's  visit  was  to  get  him,  Charles,  to  "drop  a  hint  to 
Mary,"  he  refused  at  once,  point-blank. 

The  engineer  was  pained  and  astonished. 

"You  don't  understand  the  situation,"  said  he,  stewing. 
"I  tell  you  Mary's  gone  to  work  to  make  a  heroine  of  that 
woman !  Recommending  her  for  good  jobs,  with  her  morning, 
noon,  and  night,  having  people  in  to  meet  her  at  teal  Now, 
of  course,  she  just  doesn't  understand  what  she's  doing. 
She's  too  innocent;  she's  ignorant  of  the  practical  meaning  of 
this  business.  And  it's  my  duty  to  protect  her  from  her 
ignorance.  ..." 

Charles  sat  down  on  one  of  the  parallel  white  beds  —  the 
Judge's.  And  little  as  he  sympathized  with  Miss  Trevenna's 
Blow  for  Freedom,  he  seemed  to  sympathize  even  less  with 
his  young  friend's  proprietary  absurdities. 

Whatever  this  stalwart  youth  was,  Mary  Wing  had  made 
him.  An  orphan  and  poor,  he  had  been  taken  to  the  bosom  of 
the  kindly  Wings;  and  Mary,  a  girl  of  twenty  then,  had  been 
from  the  start  his  second  mother.  She  had  fed  and  clothed 
Donald,  helped  pay  his  bills  at  college;  she  had  trained  him, 
taught  him,  filled  him  with  her  own  ambition.  She  had  got 
him  his  first  opening,  pulled  wires  for  him,  hewed  out  his 
ascending  steps.  Fine  and  confident  as  Donald  stood  there, 
Mary  Wing  had  made  him.  And  now  to  see  him,  as  to  her, 
clutching  on  the  toga  of  the  primitive  male,  to  hear  him,  the 
ignorant,  ridiculously  claiming  overlordship  in  a  field  which 
should  have  been  supremely  woman's.  . 

"  Go  ahead,"  said  Charles  dryly.  "  Protect  her  all  you  want." 

47 


Angela's    Business 


But  Donald  angrily  told  him  not  to  be  an  ass.  It  was  a 
delicate  matter  —  for  him  —  he  declared;  besides,  Mary 
would  n't  listen  to  him.  He  was  n't  advanced. 

"But  you're  another  matter.  You've  got  some  influence 
with  Mary,  and  —  " 

"  Stop  right  there !  I  Ve  got  more  influence  with  the  Weather 
Department  than  I  have  with  Mary  Wing." 

Glowering  at  him  over  the  foot  of  the  bed,  the  engineer 
demanded  reasons  for  his  strange  unpractical  behavior. 
Charles  offered  a  few  simple  selections  from  his  complex  feel 
ings. 

"  First,  your  cousin's  personal  behavior  is  none  of  my  busi 
ness.  Second,  I  'd  have  no  respect  for  her  if  she  gave  up  her 
principles  because  you  asked  me  to  ask  her  to.  Third,  I  de 
spise  a  person  who 's  scared  out  of  his  wits  by  fear  of  what 
the  neighbors  '11  think." 

Donald  appeared  momentarily  speechless.  Perceiving  this, 
the  author  fitted  a  cigarette  into  a  holder  Mary  Wing  had 
given  him  on  his  birthday,  and  resumed  his  few  remarks:  — 

"Of  course  your  mistake  is  in  supposing  that  Miss  Mary 
is  acting  through  ignorance.  She's  acting  from  principle,  as 
I  say,  and  doing  a  plucky  thing,  too.  For  she  does  n't  think 
that  because  a  poor  silly  girl  has  once  made  a  mistake,  the 
thing  to  do  —  " 

But  Manford  recovered  his  voice  with  a  bound. 

'"Mistake!  I'm  surprised  at  you,  Garrott!  I  did  you  the 
justice  to  think  that  all  this  advanced  rot  of  yours  was  just 
talk.  Come!  —  say  right  out  you  think  it's  a  mighty  plucky 
thing  for  a  girl  to  go  off  and  live  with  a  married  man! " 

Charles  smiled,  and  then  hesitated.  It  was  odd  how  in 
stantly  Donald  Manford  modernized  him,  killing  all  reactions: 
But  what  was  the  use  of  arguing  with  a  fellow  who  honestly 

48 


Angela's    Business 


believed  that  a  woman  had  but  one  "  virtue,"  who  spoke  of 
her  frankly  as  "the  sex,"  allowed  her  no  honor  but  "woman's 
honor,"  had  but  one  question  to  ask  about  her  "character"?     f 
This  youth  had  not  budged  since  the  fifth  century. 

"The  only  way  to  punish  this  is  by  the  disgrace  of  it,  I  tell 
you!"  he  was  arguing.  "There's  no  punishment  at  all  when 
you  make  a  heroine  of  the  woman." 

"There'll  be  enough  to  punish,  don't  fret,  without  Mary 
Wing's  taking  a  hand." 

"Now  look  here,  Charlie,"  said  Donald,  encouraged.  "Just 
look  at  the  matter  in  a  sensible  way.  You  can  feel  sorry  for 
her  and  all  that.  But  it  is  n't  right,  by  George,  it  is  n't  decent 
and  moral,  to  stand  up  and  practically  say  you  admire  a  no 
torious  bad  woman!  Just  think  of  the  effect  on  other  women! 
They  '11  argue, '  Well,  if  that 's  the  way  people  feel  about  it, 
there's  no  use  being  good  any  more.'  And  think,  Charlie! 
—  what  '11  become  of  Society  if  all  the  girls  get  to  skipping 
off  and  living  with  married  men!" 

Charles  laughed  and  rose.  "Of  course  I'd  not  dream  of 
speaking  to  Miss  Mary  about  this." 

The  young  engineer  exploded.  But  presently  he  gave 
it  up. 

"Then  I'll  have  to  speak  to  her  myself,"  he  declared,  and 
looked  as  if  he  expected  the  hazardous  audacity  of  such  an 
enterprise  to  touch  his  friend's  heart,  even  then.  "And  you 
remember  this,"  he  added,  angrily,  "when  Mary's  friends  are 
all  dropping  her!" 

"Nobody  who  drops  her  for  this  was  ever  her  friend." 

"  More  New  Thought !  And  what  about  Mysinger?  Sup 
pose  your  idea  is  that  this  plucky  business  will  boost  Mary's 
standing  in  the  schools  like  the  devil?" 

"My  dear  fellow,  you're  seeing  things!  You  never  heard  of 

49 


Angela's    Business 


r 


politics,  I  suppose?  Nothing  can  shake  us  in  the  schools. 
'Cause  why?  We  own  the  Board  by  two  votes." 

Donald  regarded  him  with  the  strongest  disapproval.  "Do 
you  know  you  make  me  sick?" 

"By  the  way,"  said  Charles,  pleasantly,  "didn't  I  see 
you  go  by  here  with  Miss  Flower  the  other  day?  Where  did 
you — " 

"Absolutely  sick,  and  I've  —  " 

"Meet  up  with  her,  old  fellow?  Is  n't  she  a  — " 

"Sick!"  roared  Donald,  and  banged  the  door. 

He  was  a  hopeless  ignoramus,  and  Charles  was  the  peer  of 
the  greatest  authorities,  living  or  dead.  But  the  subject,  be 
yond  doubt,  was  the  most  complex  and  baffling  in  the  whole 
field  of  Womanology.  And  Charles,  standing  and  staring  at 
that  shut  door,  was  possessed  with  the  odd  feeling  that  Donald 
had  got  the  best  of  the  argument,  after  all. 

Why  must  Mary  always  be  as  independent  as  the  Declara 
tion,  and  more  militant  than  a  Prussian? 


THE  emergency  schedule  withdrew  Charles  from  the 
streets;  he  lunched  in  twenty  minutes  at  Mrs.  Her 
man's  and  spent  the  hour  gained  at  his  writing-table. 
With  the  completion  of  the  short  fiction,  he  resumed  his  walks 
to  Berringer's.  And  now  on  Washington  Street,  the  principal 
scene  of  his  social  life  since  he  became  a  regular  author,  he 
saw  again  Miss  Angela  Flower.  In  five  days,  suddenly,  he 
saw  Miss  Angela  three  times. 

Twice,  as  it  happened,  the  two  passed  on  opposite  sides  of 
the  street,  moving  in  contrary  directions.  But  the  third  time 
he  fairly  overtook  her,  not  a  dozen  steps  from  the  door  of  the 
rich  little  Deming  boys,  to  whom  he  taught  the  Elements  all 
morning. 

He  was  pleased  with  the  agreeable  coincidence.  He  greeted 
Mary's  so  different  cousin  with  a  genuine  warmth,  springing 
spontaneously  from  his  personal  sense  of  a  bond  between 
them.  And  Miss  Angela,  it  seemed,  was  not  less  glad  to 
see  him. 

"You  don't  know  how  nice  it  is,"  she  laughed,  a  tinge  of 
color  in  her  smooth  cheeks,  "  to  see  a  familiar  face,  after  blocks 
and  blocks  of  strangers.  And  you're  almost  the  only  person 
I  know,  too!" 

Suiting  his  long  stride  to  hers,  he  assured  her  that  this  state 
of  affairs  would  pass  quickly. 

"I  got  only  a  glimpse  of  you  yesterday,"  he  pursued.  "Do 
you  take  your  constitutionals  at  this  time,  too?" 

But  she  said,  elusively,  that  she  took  them  at  all  sorts  of 
times. 


Angela's    Business 


"It's  my  chief  form  of  recreation  at  present,  you  see!  But 
—  I  thought  I  might  meet  father  up  here  —  it 's  his  time  for 
coming  home  to  lunch  from  the  college.  Only  I  seem  just  to 
miss  him  every  day." 

He  and  the  Womanly  Woman  walked  a  good  half-mile  to 
gether  that  day,  and  the  authority  enjoyed  himself  thor 
oughly.  It  was  in  the  course  of  this  walk  that  he  evolved 
another  phrase  of  scientific  justification,  viz.:  "The  Business 
of  Supplying  Beauty  and  Supplying  Charm." 

The  talk  turned  naturally  upon  the  girl  herself.  Having 
failed  to  get  any  biography  from  the  embattled  Miss  Wing, 
Charles  proceeded  to  the  source.  Under  his  agreeable,  yet 
artful  promptings,  Miss  Angela  sketched  with  a  charming 
simplicity  the  story  of  a  commonplace  family  life:  how  she 
and  her  brothers  had  grown  up  at  Hunter's  Run,  a  cross-roads 
post-office  four  miles  from  Mitchellton;  how  they  had  moved 
into  Mitchellton,  which  had  seemed  like  heaven  at  first,  but 
had  palled  after  seven  years;  how  all  the  boys  of  Mitchellton 
grew  up  and  went  away,  one  by  one,  to  make  their  marks  in 
the  world  (though  there  was  one  exception,  it  seemed,  a  Mr. 
Dan  Jenney,  who  was  still  in  Mitchellton  —  Aha!  thought 
Charles) ;  how  lonely  she  was  after  Tommy,  her  older  brother, 
had  thus  gone  away;  how  her  father  had  had  quite  a  large 
practice  in  Mitchellton,  but  did  n't  seem  much  interested  in 
getting  patients  here;  and  so  on.  Tommy,  it  was  learned,  had 
married  money  in  Pittsburg,  but  appeared  to  be  happy  all  the 
same.  As  for  the  younger  brother,  Wallie,  his  ambition  was  to 
go  to  college  and  be  an  electro-chemist,  and  he  was  now  at 
work  downtown,  gathering  funds  for  that  purpose.  Mary 
Wing  had  got  him  a  position,  it  seemed. 

Miss  Angela's  conversation,  as  has  been  noted,  was  not 
remarkable  as  conversation.  But  what  mattered  that?  Into 

52 


Angela's    Business 


an  atmosphere  too  heated  by  the  Trevennas  of  this  Unrest- 
ful  world,  her  girlish  unsophistications  blew  like  a  primrose 
zephyr.  Moreover,  she  had  her  moments,  you  may  be  sure; 
her  vivacities  as  honest  as  wit.  She  said  that  Mitchellton  was 
like  a  town  in  war-time. 

"That's  the  way  a  man  described  it  to  me  once,  a  surveyor 
from  the  North,  when  he'd  only  been  there  three  hours!  He 
declared  he  had  n't  seen  a  male  between  the  ages  of  fifteen 
and  sixty-five.  They  'd  all  gone  off,  you  see  — " 
"And  then  the  surveyor  went  off,  too?" 
"He  did!  —  exactly!  Hopped  on  a  funny  little  calico  pony 
he  had,  the  minute  he  said  that,  and  trotted  off  down  Main 
Street.  We  never  saw  him  again." 

Charles,  laughing,  looked  down  at  her.  She  wore  a  plain 
blue  suit  and  a  simple  hat  with  a  yellow  quill,  obviously  inex 
pensive  both,  and  not  new.  She  was  characterized,  sartorially, 
only  by  that  unobtrusive  yet  exquisite  neatness  whose  practice 
some  women  bring  to  a  fine  art.  Pretty  and  sweet  she  looked, 
none  the  less;  feminine,  too,  without  a  doubt. 

And,  quite  unconsciously,  she  was  giving  by  piecemeal  an 
answer  to  that  fundamental  question  of  her  Modern  critics, 
How  do  you  spend  your  time?  A  considerable  part  of  Miss 
Angela's  time  went,  it  seemed,  to  the  actual  care  of  the  house. 
With  her  leisure  she  really  had  little  to  do  as  yet,  because  of 
her  lack  of  acquaintance.  Even  the  table  of  bridge  with 
Cousin  Mary  had  not  developed  so  far.  She  walked  a  great 
deal,  usually  alone,  but  mentioned  having  met  Mr.  Manford 
the  other  day;  the  impression  was  left  that  she  and  Donald 
had  n't  specially  taken  to  each  other.  She  kept  her  mother 
company;  she  often  went  into  the  shops,  "just  looking"; 
once  or  twice  she  and  Wallie  had  been  to  the  moving-picture 
shows.  She  read  also,  it  seemed,  for  she  had  just  finished 

S3 


Angela's    Business 


"Marna"  —  a  gift  to  her,  this  was  —  a  certain  late  New 
Woman  novel  which  Charles  himself  meant  to  give  an  hour 
to  some  day.  Her  account  of  her  domestic  business  the  old- 
fashioned  girl  concluded  thus:  — 

"I  don't  know  very  much  about  housekeeping  yet,  but  I 
do  the  best  I  can.  I  think  mother  enjoys  the  rest." 

And  whatever  criticism  narrow  utilitarians  might  have 
brought  against  her  management  of  her  fifteen  hours  a  day 
seemed  to  be  morally  destroyed  by  that,  unconscious  stroke. 
Mother  enjoys  the  rest.  Imagine  Miss  Hodger,  for  instance,  — 
to  come  no  nearer  home,  —  casually  mentioning:  "I  don't 
want  to  do  this,  but  I  will.  I  want  to  go  there,  but  I  won't." 
"Why,  Miss  Hodger?"  you  would  ask  her.  "Why  must  you 
mutilate  your  Ego  thus?"  "Well,"  —  you  are  to  fancy  Miss 
Hodger  saying,  —  "you  see,  I  think  mother 'd  enjoy  the 
rest!" 

But  the  girl  herself  remained  delightfully  unconscious  of 
the  reactions  she  set  in  motion. 

"Mr.  Garrott,"  she  said  suddenly,  —  "I  hope  you  don't 
mind  my  asking,  but  —  when  are  you  going  to  have  some 
stories  coming  out?  I  'm  crazy  to  read  one  of  them!" 

"Oh!"  laughed  Mr.  Garrott.  "Well!  —I  can't  say  defi 
nitely,  at  the  moment.  I  'm  trying,"  he  said,  modestly,  "to 
write  books,  you  know,  and  it 's  a  slow  business,  with  the  little 
free  time  I  have.  My  first  one,  that  I've  just  finished,  took 
me  four  years." 

"Four  years!  How  wonderful!  But  isn't  it  going  to 
come  out  soon?" 

"I'm  —  ah  —  negotiating  with  a  publisher  now." 

"It  must  be  fascinating!  I  —  I  never  knew  an  author  be 
fore." 

He  warmed,  expanding. 

54 


Angela's    Business 


At  the  parting  of  their  ways,  these  two  paused,  talking  like 
old  friends ;  and  no  parting  took  place  here,  after  all.  Angela 
said,  with  a  charming  hesitancy:  "Mr.  Garrott,  if  you  really 
want  to  read  that  book,  —  'Marna,'  I  mean,  —  I  wish  you'd 
let  me  lend  it  to  you.  We've  finished  with  it  —  for  good!  — 
and  if  you  have  time  to  stop  a  minute  —  "  And  he,  who 
never  called,  who  had  a  special  rule  against  borrowing  things 
from  ladies,  restored  his  hat  to  his  head  at  once,  accepting 
with  pleasure. 

So  they  turned  out  of  Washington  Street  toward  Center,  and 
she  continued,  with  a  laughing,  sidelong  glance:  — 

"Do  you  know  who  Mama  reminded  me  of?  Quite  a  friend 
of  yours!  —  somebody  you  admire  a  great  deal!" 

Knowing  the  nature  of  the  book  well  from  the  reviews  he  was 
incessantly  reading,  the  young  man  smiled:  "I  wonder  if  you 
can  possibly  be  alluding  to  one  of  your  most  distinguished 
cousins." 

"It  did,  just  a  little!  At  first,  I  mean  —  where  Marna  goes 
away  to  lead  her  own  life,  and  everything.  .  .  .  Mr.  Garrott, 
do  you  think  she's  really  going  to  take  the  position  in  New 
York,  Cousin  Mary,  I  mean?" 

"Take  it!  Why,  of  course  she  will,  provided  she  can  get  it! 
It  would  be  a  remarkable  thing  for  such  a  young  woman,  and 
a  great  opportunity  besides." 

This  the  girl  seemed  to  understand.  She  remarked,  how 
ever,  that  Cousin  Mary  and  Mrs.  Wing  seemed  so  wrapped 
up  in  each  other.  Her  extreme  domesticity  was  peculiarly 
refreshing  to  Charles  just  now;  nevertheless,  he  now  took 
up  the  cudgels  for  Modernity,  though  in  the  gentlest  way: 
Why  should  not  daughters  have  the  same  right  to  leave  home 
for  work  that  the  sons  of  Mitchellton  had,  for  example? 
Daughters  had  always  left  homes  for  another  reason.  Sup- 

55 


Angela's    Business 


pose  Marna  had  married  the  first  whippersnapper  that  came 
along,  and  he  had  carried  her  off  to  Australia,  etc. 

But  Miss  Angela  seemed  to  feel  that,  for  her  part,  she  would 
look  long  at  any  lover  who  wished  to  separate  her  from  her 
mother. 

Center  Street,  at  this  point,  was  a  place  of  car-tracks,  cob 
blestones,  and  threatening  small  establishments  of  those  per 
sonal  sorts  which  are  always  first  to  appear  in  a  waning  "resi 
dence  district."  At  the  corner  stood  a  Human  Hair  Goods 
Works.  The  Flower  house  was  not  intrinsically  pretty.  It 
was  one  of  a  block  of  six,  all  just  alike  and  evidently  built 
some  time  ago;  rather  dingy  little  brick  houses,  with  weather- 
beaten  small  verandahs  set  only  a  step  or  two  above  the  side 
walk,  and  scantily  separated  from  it  by  grassless  "lawns." 
However,  Charles  was  not  repelled  by  poverty,  to  which  he 
had  been  well  used. 

Within,  he  had  the  pleasure  of  meeting  Miss  Angela's 
father,  who  was  encountered  in  the  hall,  in  the  act  of  removing 
his  overcoat.  Angela  left  the  two  men  together,  while  she 
tripped  upstairs  to  get  "Marna." 

Charles  found  the  medical  father  a  decidedly  queer  indi 
vidual.  A  very  tall,  thin,  seedy  man  he  was,  with  a  neglected 
sandy  mustache,  and  a  long  neck  punctuated  with  a  very 
large  Adam's  apple,  which  he  jerked  with  a  sort  of  nervous 
twitch  as  he  talked.  With  his  lusterless  eye  and  spare,  re 
mote  manner,  he  looked  like  a  man  who  had  let  himself  dry 
up  from  within.  Yet,  if  Charles  remembered  aright,  the 
Medical  School  had  counted  this  gentleman  a  distinct  acqui 
sition. 

He  assured  Dr.  Flower  that  he  had  long  desired  this  pleas 
ure,  and  explained:  — 

"Your  cousin,  Miss  Wing,  is  an  old  friend  of  mine." 

56 


Angela's    Business 


"My  wife's  cousin,"  said  the  Doctor,  seeming  to  make  a 
distinction.  "  Quite  so !  Certainly ! ' ' 

"  I  believe  it  was  she  who  first  brought  the  Medical  School 
to  your  attention?" 

"Ah,  yes!  I  fancy  it  was.  Quite  so.  Have  a  cigar,  will 
you?  However,"  continued  the  father,  jerking  his  long  neck, 
"you  don't  offer  that  as  something  to  be  urged  against  her,  I 
assume?" 

The  young  man,  though  surprised,  smiled  politely. 

"Possibly  you're  no  more  enthusiastic  about  teaching  than 
lam,  say?" 

"Ah,  well!  .  .  .  It  wants  excitement,  you  maintain?  — 
lacks  the  spice  of  brilliant  variety?  Ycu  find  no  romance  in 
it,  you  suggest?  Well  — " 

Dr.  Flower  fell  silent,  brushing  his  hat  with  the  sleeve  of 
his  worn  coat,  while  he  stared  cheerlessly  at  nothing.  Charles 
wondered  at  him,  with  a  certain  sense  of  mild  mystery.  If  he 
felt  that  way  about  teaching,  why  had  he  thrown  over  his 
practice  and  left  Mitchellton? 

"I  believe,"  said  he,  with  discretion,  "your  —  that  is,  Mrs. 
Flower's  cousin,  Mary  Wing,  is  the  only  teacher  I  ever  knew 
who  could  really  be  called  a  'fan. ' " 

"Quite  so.  You  won't  have  a  cigar,  you  said?  But  even  in 
that  case,  it  doesn  't  amount  to  a  complete  exhaustion  of  the 
energies,  you  would  feel?  You'd  contend  there's  an  unused 
store  for  other  enterprises,  even  there?" 

"Quite  so,"  said  Charles,  considerably  puzzled. 

But  then  Miss  Angela  came  skipping  and  smiling  down  the 
narrow  stairs,  book  in  hand,  and  slipped  her  arm  through  her 
father's.  She  said  that  Mr.  Garrott  could  keep  "  Marna  "  as  long 
as  he  liked,  but  that  she  would  be  so  interested  to  hear  what  he 
thought  of  it.  The  trio  stood  chatting  a  moment  together. 

57 


Angela's    Business 


Angela's  last  word,  in  her  soft  and  pretty  voice,  was,  "  Don't 
forget,  we  're  going  to  have  that  bridge  game  some  night 
soon!" 

So  he  took  leave  of  her,  not  only  with  the  book,  but  with  the 
promise  of  a  party  shortly  to  come.  And,  curiously,  that  was 
the  first  thing  this  simple  Nice  Girl  had  ever  said  that  the  au 
thority  felt  inclined  to  criticize  somewhat:  the  use  of  the  word 
"that,"  now.  Skilled  and  wary  he  had  grown  since  he  be 
came  a  regular  writer,  and  he  could  not  recall  having  agreed 
to  give  a  valuable  evening  to  playing  bridge  soon.  The  en 
gagement  had  just  developed  along,  it  seemed. 

But  that  was  a  trivial  matter,  early  lost  sight  of.  Continuing 
his  walk  to  Berringer's  and  the  good  man-talk,  Charles  pon 
dered  upon  the  nature  of  a  Home. 

La  Femme,  as  we  know,  was  all  over  for  this  young  man; 
through  too  much  knowledge  he  had  analyzed  the  charm 
away.  He  did  not  (of  course)  exaggerate  Miss  Angela's  values, 
magnify  anything  about  her  whatever.  Of  course  she  was  but 
a  Type,  and  a  familiar  one.  Only,  for  him  she  had  happened 
to  personify,  with  unexpected  freshness,  that  aspect  of  the 
Question  which,  he  was  more  and  more  convinced,  scientific 
thinkers  fallaciously  slurred  over:  the  business  aspect  of 
Home-Making,  to  wit.  Though  few  of  the  sounder  authorities 
openly  advocated  the  suppression  of  Homes,  was  it  not  true 
that  they  —  and  he  once  among  them  —  practically  did  so  by 
denying  any  value  in  their  schemes  to  those  emotional  and 
spiritual  contributions  which  alone  turned  a  house  into  a 
Home?  There  lay  the  heart  of  the  whole  great  problem. 
"Four  walls,"  mused  Charles,  as  he  swung  rapidly  down 
Center  Street,  "and  three  meals  a  day,  and  even  the  ban 
isters  dusted,  to  boot  —  these  mere  utilities  can  never  make 
a  Home." 

58 


Angela's    Business 


And  he  made  a  mental  note  of  the  sentence  for  his  con 
servative  Notes  in  the  exercise-book  of  the  old  lady. 

But  this  day,  as  it  fell  out,  was  memorable  in  the  Studio  for 
more  than  meditation. 

When  he  left  Miss  Chorister's  at  four-thirty,  which  was 
when  the  tutorial  day  ended,  the  author  did  not  make  straight 
for  the  Studio,  according  to  habit,  but  turned  downtown 
again,  instead.  He  had  personal  affairs  to  attend  to  to-day, 
an  accumulation  of  small  shopping  and  sundry  errands  that 
could  not  be  longer  procrastinated.  They  took  much  valued 
time.  It  was  after  six,  in  the  winter  night,  when  he  got 
home. 

At  the  foot  of  his  own  steps  he  encountered  his  and  his 
relative's  new  fellow-lodger,  and  their  only  one.  Possibly  he 
was  still  thinking  scientifically  of  Miss  Angela,  for  it  instantly 
occurred  to  him  that  here  was  Miss  Angela's  full  opposite. 

"Oh,  good-evening,  Miss  McGee!" 

He  spoke  as  pleasantly  as  possible,  but  the  lodger  only 
answered  "Evening,"  and  turned  her  back  at  once. 

"How  do  you  do  to-night?" 

"Tired  as  a  dog." 

"And  no  wonder,  working  such  long  hours!" 

No  answer  from  the  lodger. 

"  You  are  later  than  usual  this  evening,  are  n't  you?  " 

"Keep  me  on  purpose,"  muttered  Miss  McGee  angrily 
(or  something  like  that),  climbing  the  tall  stairs. 

She  was  a  dark  young  woman,  darkly  dressed  and  darkly 
scowling,  it  had  seemed,  at  the  mere  sight  of  Charles.  As  he 
knew  from  a  rare  letter  on  the  hall  table,  her  official  name  was 
Mary  Maude  McGee,  but  to  him  she  was  always  and  simply 
Two-Book  McGee,  on  account  of  her  apparent  habit  of  read 
ing  two  novels  a  night,  every  night  in  the  year.  She  had  them 

59 


Angela's    Business 


under  her  arm  now,  with  the  labels  of  the  circulating  library 
showing. 

Charles  also  had  a  book  under  his  arm,  "Marna":  here  was 
a  topic! 

"Do  you,"  he  inquired,  continuing  the  social  chat,  "find 
many  good  novels  these  days?" 

"No,  I  don't!"  said  she,  so  sharply  that  you  would  have 
supposed  he  was  to  blame  for  it.  Imagine ! 

"You  must  really  look  over  my  stock  some  day,  Miss  Mc- 
Gee.  I'm  sure  I  have  something  you  could  read." 

But  the  invitation  brought  only  a  mutter  from  Miss  Mc- 
Gee,  and  the  door  of  the  Second  Hall  Back  banged  shut 
behind  her. 

"Help!  help!"  mused  Charles,  and  straightway  was  struck 
with  an  interesting  thought:  How  about  taking  over  Two- 
Book  McGee  as  a  minor  character  in  the  new  novel? 

He  considered  the  idea,  mounting  to  his  Studio.  The  lodger 
was  known  as  a  self-supporting  female,  allied  with  a  tintype 
and  "art  photography"  establishment.  Certainly  she  seemed 
an  odd  sort  of  person  to  say  "Look  pleasant"  to  anybody. 
Friends,  engagements,  pleasures,  she  had  none,  on  the  word  of 
Mrs.  Herman.  All  day  she  helped  to  photograph  the  General 
Public;  all  night,  till  sleep  overcame  her,  she  sat  alone  in  her 
very  small  room,  reading  novel  after  novel  which  she  did  not 
like.  A  dull  life,  it  might  have  seemed;  but  then,  you  see,  she 
had,  to  bless  her,  the  priceless  knowledge  that  she  was  a 
self-respecting  and  independent  being,  a  person  and  not 
a  parasite.  The  authorities  could  not  doubt  that  Two-Book 
McGee  was  happy  in  her  way. 

Charles,  however,  seemed  to  be  doing  just  that,  at  the 
moment.  He  conceived  Miss  McGee  as  one  not  joyful  in  her 
economic  freedom;  hence  as  an  "illustrative  character"  for 

60 


Angela's    Business 


conservatism,  sowing  doubts  in  the  minds  of  readers  as  to 
whether  Leading  My  Own  Life  was,  in  fact,  necessarily  the 
other  name  for  happiness.  Climbing  the  stairs  now,  he  in 
vented  words  for  Two-Book's  mouth:  imagining  her  as  saying, 
"Oh,  I'd  marry  anybody  to  get  out  of  this!"  —  and  again, 
with  sobs,  crying  out  to  some  modern  arguer,  "Oh,  just  to 
be  a  parasite  again!  —  just  to  be  a  snug,  comfortable  little 
parasite!"  .  .  . 

So  making  fiction,  Charles  Garrott  opened  the  door  of  his 
Studio.  And  full  upon  the  threshold,  he  encountered  the 
great  surprise  of  his  life. 

The  large  room  looked  familiar  and  inviting.  The  lamp 
burned  on  the  writing-table;  the  drop-light  shone  over  the 
Judge's  typewriter;  the  author's  office-coat  hung  on  his  chair- 
back.  By  the  typewriter  stood  the  Judge,  pink  and  shining 
from  his  evening  bath.  Wrapped  in  a  beautiful  lavender  robe, 
he  turned,  smiling. 

But  on  the  writing-table,  beyond  the  lamp,  there  lay  a 
strange  package.  The  author's  eye  had  fallen  on  it  even  as 
he  opened  the  door.  Some  instinct  in  him  seemed  to  divine 
the  incredible  truth  instantly,  but  something  else  within 
spoke  loud  and  sharp:  — 

"What's  that?" 

Judge  Blenso  laughed  agreeably,  and  lowered  the  bath- 
towel  with  which  he  was  rubbing  his  fine  white  head.  To  the 
secretary,  the  literary  business  was  still  a  sealed  book  indeed; 
so  far  as  he  was  advised,  a  package  of  manuscript  back  by 
express  was  doubtless  a  very  pleasant  little  occurrence. 

"Why,  it's  Entry  2,  Charles!"  he  chuckled.  Your  novel  — 
just  come  in!  Must  be!  And  gad,  my  dear  fellow!  Willcox 
wrote  you  a  letter,  too!" 

The  young  man  bounded  for  the  table. 

61 


Angela's    Business 


Long  as  he  had  deemed  himself  a  writer,  Charles  King 
Garrott  had  as  yet  sent  out  little  manuscript,  "  Bondwomen  " 
having  absorbed  all  his  creative  energies  for  years.  Accord 
ingly,  the  prevalent  stupidity  of  editors  and  publishers, 
amounting  ofttimes  to  mere  madhouse  imbecility,  as  every 
young  writer  can  testify,  was  yet  as  a  sealed  book  to  him. 
With  the  ultra-modern  message  of  the  Old  Novel,  he,  per 
sonally,  might  have  become  authoritatively  dissatisfied;  but 
that  any  publisher  in  his  senses  could  fail  to  jump  at  it 
had,  of  course,  scarcely  entered  his  mind. 

Hence,  in  the  two  seconds  required  to  pounce  upon  and 
open  Willcoxes'  letter,  his  mind  was  tossing  out  other  explana 
tions  of  that  package  with  the  utmost  lucidity  and  vigor.  Will- 
coxes  had  been  so  pleased  with  the  Old  Novel  that  they  had 
put  it  in  type  at  once:  this  package  was  the  proof.  The  pack 
age  was  the  manuscript;  but  it  had  been  sent  back  by  an 
office-boy  by  mistake,  and  the  letter  rushed  after  it  to  im 
plore  pardon.  Willcoxes,  while  delighted  with  the  novel,  had 
thought  that  possibly  some  of  the  ultra-modernism  had  better 
be  toned  down  a  little,  in  the  interest  of  Homes;  therefore  .  .  . 

In  short,  Charles  Garrott's  mind  executed  exactly  the  pro 
cesses  that  all  young  writers'  minds  execute  at  these  moments, 
in  instinctive  recoil  from  the  stupefying  fact  of  Rejection.  But 
when  he  got  the  letter  open,  all  this  activity  was  quickly  stilled. 

DEAR  SIR  [it  ran] : 

We  have  given  careful  consideration  to  the  manuscript  of  the 
novel,  BANDWOMEN,  which  you  were  good  enough  to  submit,  but 
regret  to  report  that  the  decision  has  been  adverse.  We  fear  that 
the  publication  of  the  story  would  not  prove  a  financial  success. 

The  manuscript  is  returned  to  you  to-day  by  express.  Thanking 
you  for  giving  us  the  opportunity  of  examining  it,  we  are 
Yours  very  truly, 

WILLCOX  BROTHERS  COMPANY. 
62 


Angela's    Business 


In  this  stunning  letter  the  stenographer's  error  seemed 
the  crowning  insult.  Bandwomen  I  Charles,  for  once  in  his  life, 
blew  up. 

The  proceedings  ensuing  came  as  a  complete  surprise  to  the 
secretary,  exciting  in  their  way:  he  had  really  never  thought 
that  Charles  had  it  in  him.  That  commonly  sedentary  and 
controlled  young  man  had  abruptly  become  dynamic  and 
vocal.  Some  of  his  remarks  eluded  the  listener,  as,  for  in 
stance,  the  menacing  cry:  "I'll  rent  the  Academy  of  Music 
some  day  to  tell  about  this!"  But  on  the  whole  Judge 
Blenso,  who  himself,  in  his  prime,  had  been  counted  an  ac 
complished  commentator  on  the  world's  devilish  ways,  gladly 
gave  tribute  to  Charles  for  verbal  ingenuity  and  somewhat 
arresting  vividness  of  metaphor. 

But  it  was  clear  now  to  the  secretary  that  this  was  no 
pleasant  happening  after  all.  When  the  storm  began  to  abate, 
he  spoke  in  mollifying  tones:  — 

"Now,  my  dear  fellow,  —  this  unfortunate  occurrence. 
Unfortunate!  But  as  to  that  plan  of  mine  —  we  might  con 
sider  it  now,  Charles?  What  do  you  think?  " 

"What  plan?"  Charles  said,  in  a  let-down  voice. 

"I  regret  this,  about  Entry  2,"  said  the  Judge,  with  his 
brilliant  black  gaze.  "'Bandwomen'  is  a  fine  novel,  my  dear 
fellow,  —  fine!  But  as  to  that  little  plan  of  mine  —  giving 
our  undivided  time  and  abilities  henceforth  to  some  more 
remunerative  kind  of  work?  Gad,  Charles!  —  wouldn't  it 
be  wise?" 

And  then  Charles,  after  staring  blankly  at  his  relative's 
odd  handsome  figure,  suddenly  burst  out  laughing.  .  .  . 

But  later  he  stood  at  his  window,  staring  silently  down  into 
the  lamplit  street.  A  rare  depression  had  suddenly  closed  over 
him.  Oddly  enough,  it  seemed  to  have  little  to  do  with  his 

63 


Angela's    Business 


great  repulse  as  a  writer.  After  all,  "Bondwomen,"  good 
though  he  felt  it  to  be,  did  not  represent  his  best  thought  now; 
moreover,  that  the  next  publisher  would  jump  at  it  still 
seemed  to  him  as  certain  as  Judgment  Day.  The  young 
man's  deep  dissatisfactions  were  with  all  the  terms  and  con 
ditions  of  his  writer's  life. 

Long  ago  he  had  said  to  a  friend  once,  "I  can't  afford  to 
give  my  time  to  making  money,"  and  the  remark,  being  re 
peated,  had  gained  him  the  reputation  of  a  fool's  wit,  none 
recognizing  that  he  had  practically  bagged  it  outright  from 
a  fellow  of  the  name  of  Agassiz.  And  there  (he  was  thinking) 
was  the  measure  of  the  degree  to  which  he  had  withdrawn 
from  the  accepted  ways  of  men,  from  all  the  currents  of  stimu 
lating  life.  Making  money,  after  all,  was  the  "  battle  of  life," 
and  he  —  he  had  thought  it  often  before  now  —  had  placed 
himself  with  the  noncombatants.  All  day,  downtown  there, 
vigorous  beings  met  and  fought,  crossed  wills,  locked  minds, 
pitted  strength  against  strength;  while  he,  Charles,  spent  his 
days  with  women  and  children  and  his  nights  alone  in  this 
room,  palely  pondering  over  ethical  subtleties.  He  remem 
bered  something  Mary  Wing  had  said  to  him  one  day  last 
winter:  "You're  a  great  deal  more  like  a  woman  than  a  man; 
don't  you  know  it?"  On  the  whole,  Mary  had  meant  that  as 
a  compliment,  but  the  word  had  stuck  in  him  like  a  knife. 

He  had  bent  his  life  to  be  a  writer  —  and  for  what?  Merely 
that  those  who  knew  him  best  might  view  him,  tolerantly,  as 
a  member  of  the  Third  Sex. 

"A  writer  ought  to  go  out  once  a  month  and  do  something 
cruel,"  he  thought  moodily.  "Assault  and  battery.  .  .  . 
Blood  in  rivers.  ..." 

He  was  disgusted  with  tutoring  and  writing,  with  Woman 
and  all  womanish  ways. 

64 


Angela's    Business 


Nevertheless,  the  instant  supper  was  over,  he  was  found 
seated  at  his  writing-table,  "Notes  on  Women"  open  before 
him.  In  fact,  the  bee  had  stung  this  young  man  deep,  whether 
he  liked  it  or  not.  In  sum,  the  unimagined  rebuff  to  his  prin 
cipal  opus  did  not  diminish,  but  intensified  the  literary  passion. 
Now  he  embarked  upon  his  first  attempt  to  plot  out  a  defi 
nite  scenario  for  his  new  novel,  "Bondwomen's"  subtle  and 
superior  successor.  And  it  must  have  been  that  the  novel 
thoughts  generated  at  the  Redmantle  Club  had  rapidly  crys 
tallized  through  the  days  succeeding.  For  now  it  seemed  to 
be  quite  clear  in  the  author's  mind  that  he  would  take,  as  the 
central  figure  in  his  greater  work,  an  extreme  specimen  of 
lawless  Egoette,  against  whom  he  would  set,  in  subtle  but 
most  telling  contrast,  the  best  type  of  Home-Maker. 


VI 


IT  was  one  of  those  slack  hours  in  the  domestic  day  when 
even  the  most  tireless  hands  can  find  no  task  to  do. 
Miss  Angela  Flower  sat  by  the  single  window  of  her 
bedroom,  the  window  that  gave,  over  two  sets  of  back-yards, 
a  sectional  view  of  Washington  Street.    On  the  ledge  beside 
her  stood  the  opera-glasses,  employed  sometimes  for  long 
distance  vision.    They  were  old  glasses,  somewhat  shabby 
now,  and  the  case  to  them  was  long  since  lost. 

To  be  transplanted  is  hard  on  the  young,  as  Charles 
Garrott  had  once  said,  and  to  be  a  normal  girl  is  to  desire 
that  pleasant  happenings  shall  occur.  This  was  Angela's 
favorite  seat  in  the  house,  because  it  brought  her  nearest  to 
the  happenings  of  the  Street  of  the  Blessed:  nearest  to  them, 
while  she  was  yet  farthest  away.  Often  in  the  early  weeks 
she  had,  indeed,  felt  quite  forlorn  as  she  sat  here;  she  was 
a  stranger  and  friendless,  of  a  poor  family  and  with  small  op 
portunity.  Since  the  Redmantle  Club  meeting,  however,  the 
view  from  the  window  had  become  more  personally  interest 
ing,  more  touched  with  the  sense  of  participation.  Here 
Angela  had  seen  Mr.  Garrott  on  his  way  to  lunch;  here  she 
had  twice  glimpsed  Mr.  Manford,  striding  along  from  his 
office  just  at  dark;  here  she  had  even  made  out  Mr.  Tilletts, 
whom  once  she  had  mistaken  for  somebody's  uncle,  whirling 
by  in  a  great  automobile. 

And  this  afternoon,  in  her  leisure  hour,  Angela  did  not  feel 
forlorn  or  out  of  things  at  all,  nor  did  she  so  much  as  glance 
out  of  the  window,  with  a  naked  eye.  She  had  sheets  of  note- 

66 


Angela's    Business 


paper  upon  a  magazine  in  her  lap,  and  on  one  of  the  sheets 
she  was  writing  blithely:  — 

Miss  Angela  Flower  entertained  at  bridge  Thursday  evening. 

As  the  Redmantle  Club  had  been  her  first  party  in  the 
city,  so  the  young  girl,  with  real  pleasure,  now  planned  for 
a  second,  this  one  to  be  her  very  own.  It  had  occurred  to 
her,  more  for  fun  than  anything  else,  to  write  out  a  little 
notice  of  her  party  for  the  social  columns  of  the  "Post."  Not 
being  as  experienced  at  writing  as  Mr.  Garrott,  she  took 
some  time  to  get  the  wording  of  the  notice  just  to  her  liking; 
but  it  was  a  very  happy  sort  of  time. 

That  finished,  Angela  turned  again  to  the  more  practical 
aspects  of  the  party.  Who  were  to  be  the  guests  at  it,  in  fine? 
As  yet  she  had  only  herself  and  Mr.  Garrott. 

Now,  calling  out  suddenly  to  her  mother  in  the  front  room, 
she  learned  to  her  surprise  that  it  was  almost  half-past  four 
o'clock;  whereon  she  sprang  up  at  once,  and  began  to  dress 
quickly  for  the  street.  About  quarter  of  five,  after  talking  a 
little  with  her  mother  in  the  front  room,  Angela  set  out  to 
call  on  her  cousin,  Mary  Wing. 

Now  Angela  knew  that  something  rather  unpleasant  was 
going  on  in  connection  with  her  Cousin  Mary  at  this  time. 
Being  a  well-brought-up  young  girl,  she  was,  of  course,  not 
allowed  to  hear  bold,  improper  talk,  but  still  she  knew  that 
there  was  something.  Mrs.  Flower,  though  very  fond  of  Mrs. 
WTing,  who  was  her  double  first-cousin,  had,  indeed,  felt 
obliged  to  forbid  Angela  to  cultivate  any  undue  intimacy 
with  Mary;  which  Angela,  considering  the  differences  between 
the  two  girls,  was  hardly  likely  to  do  in  any  case.  Neverthe 
less,  relations  were  still  pleasant,  and  Mrs.  Flower  had  agreed 
that,  under  the  circumstances,  Cousin  Mary  and  Mr.  Manford 

67 


Angela's    Business 


should  be  invited  to  the  bridge-party.  It  was  the  cousinly 
thing  to  do,  and  besides,  as  Mrs.  Flower  had  pointed  out,  she 
could  not  very  well  invite  Mr.  Manford  without  inviting 
Cousin  Mary,  too. 

The  Wings  lived  in  a  pleasant  house  on  Olive  Street,  four 
doors  from  Washington  and  overlooking  the  Green  Park. 
The  house  was  bigger  than  it  looked,  because  of  a  two-story 
extension  that  ran  out  behind,  converting  an  ordinary  dwelling 
into  two  quite  nice  flats.  Building  that  extension  was  the 
very  first  thing  that  Mary  had  done  when  she  took  charge  of 
the  family.  In  the  upper  flat  dwelt  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Crowther, 
who  could  sometimes  be  heard  recriminating  each  other  in 
embittered  tones.  In  the  lower  flat  Mrs.  and  Miss  Wing  were 
very  comfortable,  with  four  rooms,  bath,  kitchenette,  tiny 
back  yard  and  patent  clothes-dryer.  The  fourth  room,  which 
had  been  Donald  Manford's  till  he  outgrew  apron-strings, 
was  a  convertible  affair,  now  a  dining-room,  now  a  bedroom, 
according  as  the  Wings  dined  at  home,  on  the  one  hand,  or 
were  receiving  a  visit  from  Fanny  Warder  —  Mary's  younger 
but  married  sister  —  on  the  other.  At  present  the  latter 
condition  prevailed,  and  Fanny's  two  babies  possessed  the 
room,  the  flat,  and  the  world  besides. 

Angela  entered  upon  three  generations,  scattered  widely 
over  the  sitting-room  floor.  Fanny  was  out,  but  her  place  in 
the  line  was  ably  taken  by  Aunt  Mary,  whose  modernity  did 
not  stick  out  so  much  in  these  purely  domestic  moments. 
Angela,  watching  her  cousin  explain  to  Paulie  Warder  why 
the  best  little  boys  never,  never  ate  green  paint,  thought  with 
a  kind  of  surprise:  "  She  really  looks  very  nice."  She  was  duly 
presented  to  Paulie  and  Neddy- Weddy,  who  were  coaxed  to 
show  off  their  store  of  tricks  for  the  Pretty  Lady,  and  she  did 
her  best  to  shower  those  eulogies  which  the  relatives  in  the 

68 


Angela's    Business 


case  invariably  expect.  But  Neddy-Weddy,  for  his  part, 
appeared  altogether  too  sleepy  to  care  what  strangers  might 
think  of  him,  and  it  may  be  that  to  a  coolly  impartial  eye 
Paulie  appeared  more  soiled  than  cute  at  this  particular 
moment.  Angela  really  was  n't  sorry  when  the  babies'  grand 
mother  gathered  them  and  their  belongings  to  her  bosom  and 
withdrew  to  an  inner  chamber. 

But  when  she  broached  the  matter  of  the  bridge-party  on 
Thursday,  Cousin  Mary  said  at  once:  — 

"My  dear,  it's  very  sweet  of  you,  but  I  couldn't  —  pos 
sibly.  I  can't  dream  of  taking  an  evening  off  —  oh,  this  side 
of  Christmas!" 

Cousin  Mary  had  a  great  stack  of  examination  papers  to 
mark,  it  seemed;  she  pointed  to  them  on  her  open  desk  in  the 
corner.  She  also  had  ten  thousand  leaflets  to  distribute  for 
that  Education  League  of  hers;  they  lay  in  bales  in  another 
corner,  behind  the  sofa.  Further,  she  had  three  articles  to 
write  at  once  for  the  League's  magazine:  for  it  had  a  special 
magazine  all  its  own,  it  seemed.  As  for  Donald  Manford,  she 
said  she  could  not  speak.  But  Cousin  Mary  did  mention,  in  a 
discouraging  way,  that  Donald  also  was  doing  a  good  deal  of 
rush-work  just  now,  clearing  his  desk  for  his  trip  to  Wyoming. 

"And  besides,  my  dear,"  she  concluded,  "  to  the  best  of  my 
knowledge,  Donald  can't  play  bridge  at  all." 

"I  could  teach  him,  Cousin  Mary  —  it's  awfully  easy!  I 
remember,  I  taught  a  man  in  Mitchellton  to  play  once,  in 
twenty  minutes!  Besides  —  why,  of  course,  it  wouldn't 
make  any  difference!" 

Mary  Wing,  no  doubt,  desired  to  play  fair.  She  could  not 
say  now,  as  of  old,  that  Donald  never  went  out;  for  she  knew 
that  Donald  was  going  out  that  very  evening,  escorting  Miss 
Helen  Carson  to  the  theater,  in  short.  Mary  knew  this, 

69 


Angela's    Business 


because  she  had  arranged  the  matter  herself  ,v  and  personally 
bought  the  tickets  for  Donald's  account. 

So  she  said:  "You  must  ask  him,  Angela  —  do!  Use  my 
telephone  there,  why  don't  you,  and  catch  him  now  before  he 
leaves  the  office?" 

But  no,  that  was  just  what  Angela  felt  she  could  not  do, 
for,  while  she  had  enjoyed  two  short  walks  with  Mr.  Manford, 
the  truth  was  that  he  had  never  called.  Mr.  Garrott,  on  the 
other  hand,  besides  everything  else,  had  called,  the  day  she 
lent  him  the  book. 

"I  thought  you  might  ask  him,  Cousin  Mary.  I  thought 
you  might  just  bring  him  with  you,  informally.  It's  going  to 
be  very  informal,"  said  Angela. 

"But  as  I  can't  go  myself,  Angela,  you  see  .  .  ." 

Angela  concealed  her  disappointment  as  best  she  could. 
She  was  a  sweet-natured  girl;  moreover,  Cousin  Mary,  after 
all,  was  the  only  person  who  had  tried  to  do  anything  for  her. 
Nevertheless,  her  disappointment  was  keen,  and  touched  with 
a  little  irritation  at  Cousin  Mary's  attitude.  Her  cousin,  Mr. 
Garrott,  Mr.  Manford,  and  herself  —  they  made  a  natural 
table  of  bridge,  a  little  coterie  of  friends  and  relatives  who 
instinctively  met  together  now  and  then  for  congenial  diver 
sion.  It  did  seem  rather  hard  that  Cousin  Mary  should  spoil 
it  all,  with  this  firm  stand  against  all  social  enjoyment.  Only 
she  and  Mr.  Garrott,  it  seemed,  cared  for  a  little  wholesome 
pleasure. 

And  undoubtedly  this  attitude  of  Cousin  Mary's  did  reduce 
the  bridge-party  to  a  rather  precarious  position.  Of  course 
Jennie  Finchman  could  be  secured  for  the  other  girl,  or  even 
Fanny  Warder;  but  as  for  the  man  to  fill  Mr.  Manford's 
place,  that  was  a  more  difficult  matter. 

"I'm  awfully  sorry  you  can't  come,  Cousin  Mary,"  she  was 

70 


Angela's    Business 


saying  in  her  soft  voice.  "Mr.  Garrott'll  be  so  disappointed. 
He  admires  you  so  much  —  indeed,  he  does !  He  told  me  so 
only  yesterday." 

"Oh!"  said  Mary  Wing;  and  added,  as  if  it  were  a  part  of 
the  same  sentence  —  "yesterday!  You're  seeing  a  good  deal 
of  him  now?" 

"Oh,  yes!  We  have  a  walk  or  something  nearly  every  day." 

"He's  quite  attractive,  don't  you  think?" 

The  girl  answered  without  self-consciousness:  "Oh,  I  do 
—  he 's  the  nicest  thing !  And  so  cunning-looking,  too !  — 
is  n't  he?" 

"I've  always  been  intrigued,  I  admit,"  said  the  school 
teacher,  "by  the  three  brown  freckles  on  his  nose." 

She  was  looking  with  admiration  at  her  cousin's  fresh  youth- 
fulness,  so  unmarked  by  experience,  so  innocent  of  knowledge 
of  fierce  conflicting  ideas.  And  Mary  looked  with  a  kind  of 
compunction,  too.  She  had  honestly  wished  and  tried  to  "  do 
something"  for  Angela;  but,  alas,  she  herself  had  been  so  long 
and  completely  out  of  things  that  few  connections  remained 
to  her  now,  such  as  would  assist  to  launch  a  somewhat  belated 
debut.  She  had  her  hands  full  enough  trying  to  do  something 
of  that  sort  with  Donald,  an  eligible  man.  Still  — 

"Oh,  Angela,  here's  a  thought!"  she  said,  suddenly.  "If 
you'll  only  make  a  decently  long  visit,  you'll  be  almost  cer 
tain  to  see  Donald  here !  He  drops  in  nearly  every  afternoon 
to  see  the  babies,  you  know  —  " 

"Oh!  — does  he?" 

"You  never  imagined  such  a  goose  as  he  is  over  them.  And 
then  you  could  ask  him  to  the  party,  in  —  in  a  casual  way." 

Angela  cheered  up  at  once.  Of  course,  if  she  could  meet 
and  ask  Mr.  Manford  in  a  casual  way,  it  would  be  different. 
And  it  must  be  admitted  that  Mr.  Tilletts,  who  had  hovered 


Angela's    Business 


in  the  background  of  her  mind,  did  seem  a  rather  remote  possi 
bility. 

So  the  talk  passed  easily  from  the  bridge-party  to  Fanny 
Warder,  and  other  lesser  matters. 

Mary  Wing  moved  about  as  she  talked.  She  was  picking 
up  fire-engines  and  pieces  of  cake,  overlooked  by  the  grand 
mother  in  the  suddenness  of  departure.  Angela's  eyes  fol 
lowed  her  over  the  room,  and  she  felt  a  touch  of  envy.  It  was 
really  a  pretty  room,  much  prettier  than  anything  in  the 
Flowers*  little  house,  large,  light,  attractively  furnished,  most 
comfortable  and  livable.  But,  of  course,  it  was  a  simple 
matter  to  have  pretty  things  if  you  had  the  money  to  buy 
them;  which,  in  brief,  was  just  what  the  Flowers  did  n't  have. 
It  suddenly  came  over  Angela  that  her  advanced  cousin  was, 
comparatively  speaking,  a  rich  woman. 

She  said  something  of  the  sort  aloud  presently.  Mary  Wing 
replied  that  she  worked  pretty  hard  for  all  she  had. 

"  Our  furniture  is  so  old  and  awful  I  can't  do  a  thing  with 
it,"  continued  Angela.  "I  rub  and  scrub  and  polish,  but  it 
just  seems  to  get  worse.  And  then  the  parlor  is  that  long, 
narrow  shape,  like  a  sleeping-car,  and  needs  papering  so  dread 
fully!  You  know,  Cousin  Mary,"  said  the  girl,  with  a  rueful 
laugh,  "we  were  never  so  poor  in  all  our  lives!  You  don't 
know  how  hard  it  is  to.  accomplish  anything,  when  you  liter 
ally  have  n't  a  cent  to  spend." 

Cousin  Mary,  who  could  be  very  nice  when  she  wanted  to, 
expressed  herself  very  sympathetically.  "And  I  do  know 
something  about  it,  my  dear,  you  see,  for  I  've  been  that  way 
myself." 

"If  father 'd  only  get  some  patients!"  said  Angela.  "But 
he's  so  funny,  he  just  seems  to  think  a  family  gets  along 
somehow,  and  never  even  put  up  his  sign  till  I  begged  him  to ! 

72 


Angela's    Business 


And,  of  course,  Wallie  does  n't  contribute  anything;  he  just 
puts  away  everything  he  makes  for  his  education  —  " 

"It  is  hard  on  you,  poor  dear  —  " 

"He  has  to,  of  course.  But  I  have  wished  we  had  Tommy 
back,  these  weeks  since  we  've  been  here !  He  was  the  sweetest, 
most  generous  thing,  till  he  married.  .  .  ." 

But  soon  Cousin  Mary  gave  the  conversation  a  character 
istic  twist,  with  the  very  suggestion  that  Mr.  Garrott  had 
once  promised  to  make  to  Angela,  and  then  permanently 
backed  down. 

"Angela,"  she  said,  suddenly  thoughtful,  "did  you  ever 
think  at  all  of  going  to  work  —  regularly,  for  yourself?" 

The  girl  looked  up,  in  surprise.  "Going  to  work?  You 
mean  in  an  office?" 

"Yes  —  something  of  that  sort.  You  —  " 

"Why,  no,  Cousin  Mary!  I've  never  had  to  think  of  that. 
Of  course,  father  can  still  support  me.  I  did  n't  mean  you  to 
think  — " 

"Oh,  of  course!  I  understand  that  perfectly!  I  meant  only 
on  your  own  account,  my  dear,  so  that  you  could  have  your 
own  money,  all  you  want  of  it.  It  makes  a  difference,  as  I  can 
testify !  And  then,  too,  I  know  a  good  many  girls  with  plenty 
of  money  already,  who  go  to  work  —  well,  just  for  the  fun 
of  it!  —  Helen  Carson,  for  instance.' 

Angela  looked  as  if  she  hardly  knew  how  to  explain  herself 
to  one  holding  her  cousin's  known  ideas  of  fun.  However, 
she  endeavored,  sweetly. 

"Yes,  I  know.  But  in  the  first  place,  you  see,  I  could  n't 
very  well  be  spared  from  the  house.  I  do  every  bit  of  the  work, 
except  cooking  and  washing,  and  mother  does  n't  expect  ever 
to  touch  the  housekeeping  any  more.  It  takes  so  much  time, 
and  worry,  and  our  cook  is  awful,  because  we  can't  afford  to 

73 


Angela's    Business 


pay  but  twelve  dollars  a  month,  and,  of  course,  a  good  servant 
won't  work  for  that!  And  besides,  father  would  n't  dream  of 
allowing  such  a  thing,  Cousin  Mary.  He  'd  think  it  was  — 
was  just  charging  him  with  being  a  failure,  and  not  able  to 
take  care  of  his  family!" 

It  was  a  sufficiently  conclusive  statement,  as  Cousin  Mary 
seemed  to  feel;  she  did  not  argue  back,  but  replied  under- 
standingly,  and  mentioned  that  Harold  Warder  felt  the  same 
way  about  women's  working.  So  Angela  felt  the  moment  to 
be  favorable  for  explaining  her  deeper  points  of  view. 

"And,  Cousin  Mary,  even  if  I  made  mother  take  back  the 
housework,  and  father'd  let  me  do  it,"  she  said,  with  a  girlish 
hesitancy  that  became  her  well,  "I  would  n't  want  to  go  into 
an  office  — or  have  a  business  career.  I  —  just  feel  differently 
about  all  those  things.  I  have  no  ambitions  that  way  —  at 
all!'1 

Cousin  Mary,  who  chanced  to  be  standing  near,  surprised 
her  by  stooping  suddenly  and  pinching  her  cheek. 

"Tell  me  what  your  ambitions  are,  Angela,  dear." 

"Well  —  you  probably  —  I  don't  believe  you'd  under 
stand  exactly  what  I  — " 

"On  the  contrary,  for  two  cents  I'll  tell  you  what  they 
are  myself." 

"Well,  what?"  said  Angela,  gazing  up  with  unfeigned 
interest.  "Tell  me  what  you  think?" 

"They  really  can  be  stated  as  one,  my  guess  is,"  said  Mary, 
smiling  in  the  nicest  way:  "To  be  a  good  wife  to  the  man  you 
will  love  some  day." 

Color  flowed  suddenly  into  the  girl's  upturned  face.  By  a 
strange  coincidence,  Cousin  Mary  had  stated  the  ambition  in 
the  very  words  Angela  herself  would  have  used.  But,  though 
maidenly  embarrassed,  she  would  not  lower  her  gaze  as  if  she 

74 


Angela's    Business 


were  ashamed  of  her  ambition,  or  overborne  by  her  cousin's 
hard  masculinity. 

"I  know,"  she  said,  pink  and  sweet,  "you  think  that's 
just  a  —  weak  womanly  ambition!  I  know  you  are  n't  much 
interested  in  my  kind  of  things,  Cousin  Mary." 

"Indeed,  you  wrong  me,"  said  Mary,  her  smile  dying.  "I 
don't  feel  that  way  at  all." 

And  through  her  shot  the  irrelevant  thought:  "Why  does 
she  call  me  Cousin  Mary,  all  the  time?  I  'm  only  four  years 
older  than  she." 

But,  as  the  two  girls  thus  gazed  at  each  other,  the  interval 
in  their  ages  seemed,  indeed,  indefinite  and  immense.  Angela's 
eyes  could  afford  that  subtle  expression  of  known  womanly 
advantage.  The  light  of  afternoon,  flowing  freely  over  the 
park  and  into  the  long  windows,  fell  full  upon  Mary  Wing's 
delicate  face.  It  was  a  face,  to  be  just,  not  devoid  of  a 
feminine  attractiveness  at  times.  But  now  the  bright  day 
showed  it  colorless  and  tired;  the  marks  of  many  "fights" 
lingered  indefinably  about  the  mouth;  tiny  crow's-feet  netted 
the  corners  of  the  fine  blue  eyes.  Yes,  this  school-teacher's 
first  youth  was  gone.  Full  of  strange  isms,  she  had  lost  sight 
of  the  real  things  of  life,  and  now  her  Woman's  Opportunity 
had  slipped  away  from  her  forever. 

It  may  be  that  Mary  Wing  would  have  given  something  of 
her  honors  to  be  prettier  than  Angela  just  for  that  moment. 

"  I  think  it  would  be  hard  to  name  a  finer  ambition.  To  be 
a  good  wife  to  .  .  ."  And,  breaking  off,  she  added,  with 
another  smile,  sudden  and  merry:  "To  Dan  Jenney,  did  n't 
you  tell  me?  " 

Her  young  cousin  lost  her  dreamy  look  rather  abruptly. 

"Why,  no,  Cousin  Mary'  Please  don't  say  that!  I  only 
told  you  that—" 

75 


Angela's    Business 


But  Cousin  Mary,  having  turned  her  eyes  toward  the  win 
dow,  interrupted  the  womanly  talk  with  a  smashing  an 
nouncement. 

"Here's  Flora  Trevenna  coming  in  —  good!"  she  said  in 
her  most  matter-of-fact  way.  "Excuse  me  a  minute,  Angela, 
—  I'm  bell-hop,  you  know!" 

Angela,  who  at  least  knew  the  ill-omened  name,  gave  one 
startled  gaze,  and  sprang  up.  The  prospect  of  casually  meet 
ing  Mr.  Manford  was  forgotten  in  her  sudden  panic  alarm. 

"I  must  go!"  she  said,  looking  about  her  a  little  wildly. 
"I  —  should  have  gone  some  time  ago  —  really!  I  just 
stopped  in  to — " 

Mary's  colorless  face  seemed  to  stiffen  a  little.  So,  perhaps, 
Mr.  Mysinger  was  wont  to  see  it. 

"Well,  wait  just  a  minute,"  she  ordered,  rather  than  re 
quested.  "I'd  especially  like  you  to  meet  Flora." 

Nice  reward  this  for  being  cousinly  and  inviting  Cousin 
Mary  to  the  bridge-party:  to  meet  that  woman! 

"I  —  really,  I  can't,  Cousin  Mary!  I'll  just  run  back  and 
see  your  mother  a  minute  —  and  then  — " 

"You  can't  well  be  so  rude  as  that,  can  you?"  said  Mary. 
And  then  she  added,  as  if  something  within  her  threw  out  the 
words  beyond  her  will:  "Why  do  you  call  me  Cousin  Mary  all 
the  time?  I'm  only  four  years  older  than  you." 

The  question,  of  course,  expected  no  notice.  Mary  was  gone 
into  the  hall.  Yet  Angela,  left  unpoliced,  did  not  immediately 
fly  toward  the  bedroom  region,  or  run  and  hide  with  the 
leaflets  behind  the  sofa.  It  may  be  she  feared  her  hard  cousin 
a  little;  but  besides  that,  in  the  strangest  and  most  contra 
dictory  sort  of  way,  it  appeared  that  she  did  not  altogether 
want  to  fly.  She  was  conscious  of  an  excitement,  of  a  sort  of 
unworthy  curiosity. 

76 


Angela's    Business 


The  front  door  opened;  there  were  voices.  And  then  Mary 
Wing  returned,  her  arm  slipped  brazenly  through  that  of  her 
astounding  friend. 

And  Angela,  despite  all  of  the  injunctions  of  propriety, 
looked;  looked,  with  a  sort  of  fearful  fascination.  Never  in 
her  life  before,  to  her  knowledge,  had  her  girlish  eyes  rested 
upon  a  Badwoman.  Though  virtue  went  out  of  her,  she  must 
look  this  once.  .  .  . 

"  Flora,  this  is  my  cousin,  Angela  Flower,  whom  you  know 
of,  I  believe.  My  friend,  Miss  Trevenna,  Angela." 

A  look  of  greeting  came  upon  the  Badwoman's  not  dis 
pleasing  face,  a  little  smile  upon  the  pretty,  sinful  lips. 

"Oh,  how  do  you  do,  Miss  Flower?" 

But  Angela,  with  her  upbringing,  found  it  impossible  to 
reciprocate  these  friendly  overtures.  Take  one  shameful  peep, 
she  might.  But  that  itself  brought  a  reaction,  perhaps;  and 
as  well  as  Donald  Manford,  as  well  as  Judge  Blenso  himself, 
Angela  knew,  if  only  by  intuition,  that  good  people  must  stand 
up  for  morals.  Donald  certainly  would  have  applauded  her, 
as  she  inclined  her  graceful  head  about  an  inch  and  spoke  two 
cold  words:  — 

"Miss  Trevenna." 

And  then,  her  alarm  mysteriously  gone,  she  turned  to  her 
cousin  and  said,  formally:  "Good-bye,  then,  Cousin  Mary. 
Do  come  to  see  us  when  you  find  time." 

Indeed,  the  two  cousins  viewed  everything  too  differently 
to  make  much  intimacy  between  them  probable.  When  the 
door  had  shut  on  Angela,  Cousin  Mary  put  her  arm  about  the 
shoulder  of  the  Badwoman  and  said  the  strangest,  the  most 
advanced  thing  possible :  — 

"Dear  Flora!  You  must  let  me  say  —  I'm  sorry." 

Miss  Trevenna,  with  her  deceptively  cloistral  countenance, 

77 


Angela's    Business 


seemed  to  flinch  a  little.  Her  gaze  looked  rather  bright;  it 
fell  away  from  Mary's.  But  she  produced  a  fair  effect  of 
uncomprehension  and  surprise. 

"Sorry?  Why,  what  for? " 

"  Well  —  I  can't  feel  my  little  cousin  showed  to  very  good 
advantage." 

"Oh,  did  n't  she?  But  it  makes  no  difference.  I  —  hardly 
ever  notice  what  people  do  —  really !  Are  you  too  busy,  or 
shall  we  walk?" 

"Let  me  get  my  hat,"  said  Mary. 

Having  put  on  hat  and  coat  in  her  own  bedroom,  the  fight 
ing  educator  looked  into  the  room  beyond,  where  the  babies 
and  their  grandmother  were  considerably  spread  over  creation. 

"Angela  gone?  "  asked  Mrs.  Wing  presently,  in  the  midst  of 
cooing. 

"Yes,"  said  Mary;  and  let  it  stand  at  that. 

"Look  how  he  cuddles  in  his  granny's  arm.  I  had  to  change 
his  little  socks  again.  She  was  very  strange  with  them, 
Mary,  did  n't  you  think  so?" 

"Strange?  —  how  do  you  mean?" 

"Why,  she  just  did  n't  seem  to  care  anything  about  them! 
Did  n't  you  notice,  she  hardly  looked  at  Paulie  once!  How 
could  she  help  loving  such  little  darlings?  And  she  seems  such 
a  nice,  womanly  girl,  too." 

"Well,  all  women  are  n't  maternal,  mother,  don't  you  know 
that?" 

"In  my  day,"  said  Mrs.  Wing  imperturbably,  "all  good 
women  loved  babies." 

But  when  Mary  said  where  she  was  off  to  now,  a  shadow 
fell  on  her  mother's  calm  face,  and  Mary  saw  it.  However, 
Mrs.  Wing  said  nothing,  this  time. 

Though  Donald  had  never  carried  out  that  hare-brained 

78 


Angela's    Business 


threat  of  his,  as  to  "  dropping  a  hint "  to  Mary,  his  voice  could 
scarcely  have  been  missed  amid  the  general  feminine  chorus. 
Indeed,  everybody  who  possessed  so  much  as  a  hint  to  her 
name,  in  those  days,  seemed  to  be  dropping  it  to  Mary.  How 
far  she  minded  her  public  unpopularity  Mary  did  not  say, 
but  her  mother's  unwavering  disapprobation  she  unquestion 
ably  took  to  heart.  "Good  women  don't  make  mistakes  of 
that  sort,"  said  Mrs.  Wing,  and  was  shaken  by  no  argument. 
And  now,  as  Mary  bent  to  kiss  this  wrinkled  and  well-loved 
cheek,  she  was  thinking  that  never  in  the  world  before  had 
there  opened  such  a  gulf  between  two  generations;  and  she 
wondered  why  life  must  be  so  hard. 

Later,  Mrs.  Wing  sat  for  some  time  quite  still,  by  her  win 
dow,  and  her  brooding  look  was  not  grandmotherly  now,  but 
motherly,  which  is  different.  For,  of  course,  there  was  one 
person  on  earth  to  whom  Mary  could  never  seem  truly  the 
mature,  advanced  and  dangerous  young  woman  of  Fights, 
Reforms  and  Careers.  Through  all  her  newnesses  and 
strength,  the  mother's  eyes  yet  held  her  as  the  tiny,  helpless, 
clinging  little  scrap  which  she,  a  young  girl  then,  had  gone 
down  to  the  gates  of  the  world  to  bring  in. 


VII 


THE  "line"  of  the  new  novel  refused  to  come 
straight  on  the  first  attempt,  or  the  second,  and 
Charles  had  been  compelled  to  leave  his  prelimi 
nary  scenarios  to  ripen  gradually  in  his  head.  In  the  intervals 
of  intense  plotting,  he  was  tossing  off  short  fictions;  four  such 
he  had  now  tossed  since  the  completion  of  "Bondwomen" 
had  set  him  free.  "Bondwomen"  itself  was  in  the  hands  of 
that  discriminating  house,  Messrs.  Blank  and  Finney,  Judge 
Blenso  having  risen  up  early  on  the  morning  after  the  rejection 
to  take  it  to  the  express  office.  Experience  was  now  coming 
with  a  leap;  but  yesterday  the  first  of  Charles's  new  stories 
had  been  sent  back  by  "Willcox's  Monthly,"  with  a  mere 
printed  form  of  refusal.  This  was  the  fiction  about  Dionysius, 
who,  it  may  be  remembered,  had  freed  his  eyes  from  the 
magic  of  sex  and  consequently  cracked  walnuts  with  a  sort 
of  splendid  sadness. 

Such  episodes  staggered  belief;  but,  in  a  strange  way,  they 
seemed  to  fan  the  fires  of  genius  unrecognized.  Hence  it  was 
without  joy  that  Charles  confronted  after  supper  this  evening 
a  memorandum  he  had  lately  left  for  himself  in  the  place 
where  he  left  memoranda.  It  was  brief,  containing  but  a 
single  word,  —  Bridge;  and,  coming  on  it  unexpectedly,  the 
author  spoke  but  a  single  word,  though  a  different  one.  No 
more  than  Mary  Wing,  of  course,  did  he  have  evenings  to 
fling  this  way  and  that,  in  mere  idle  frivolity.  Why  did  people 
have  this  mania  for  playing  cards,  going  to  places,  calling,  all 
the  tune?  Why  the  mad  rage  for  doing  things? 

80 


Angela's    Business 


As  to  this  engagement,  it  seemed  just  to  have  developed 
along;  the  first  he  knew  of  it,  you  might  say,  the  thing  was 
settled  and  arranged.  Still,  it  was  admitted  that  from  the 
young  Home-Maker's  point  of  view,  it  was  all  quite  simple 
and  natural  and  human.  Charles,  even  in  the  first  flush  of 
author's  revolt,  really  felt  no  bitterness. 

Shutting  his  table  drawer  with  a  bang,  he  withdrew  to  the 
bedroom  and  began  to  assume  one  of  those  garments  which 
first  brought  renown  to  Tuxedo  Park. 

Charles's  acquaintance  with  Miss  Angela  had  developed 
smoothly,  without  any  unusual  effort  on  his  part.  That  they 
had  a  walk  or  something  every  day  was  not  mathematically 
accurate;  but  he  had  seen  the  girl  several  times  since  the  day 
of  the  call,  when  he  got  the  book.  The  very  next  day,  as  it  fell 
out,  he  had  met  the  pretty  cousin  again  on  the  promenade,  at 
about  the  same  time  and  place,  and  as  she  was  out  only  for 
exercise,  and  had  done  her  stint,  she  said,  she  very  charmingly 
turned  around  with  him.  In  no  sense  was  it  repellent  to  the 
authority  thus  to  see,  by  pleasing  signs,  that  the  old-fash 
ioned  girl  liked  him,  in  the  good  old-fashioned  way.  At  the 
same  time,  of  course,  he  was,  by  deliberate  choice,  a  fiction- 
writer,  not  a  dancing-man ;  and  his  position  about  the  bridge- 
party,  as  he  saw  it,  was  that  he  was  doing  a  kindly  deed, 
to  give  pleasure  to  a  rather  lonely  young  girl.  Moreover,  it 
should  not  occur  again. 

And  when  he  set  out  on  the  brisk  walk  to  the  Flowers',  he 
was  not  thinking  of  Angela  at  all,  but  of  Angela's  cousin, 
Mary.  He  understood  that  Mary  was  to  be  at  the  bridge- 
party —  indeed,  he  understood  that  the  party  was  being 
given  principally  in  Mary's  honor  —  and  he  was  genuinely 
concerned  as  to  what  his  manner  toward  that  young  woman 
now  should  be. 

81 


Angela's    Business 


His  perplexity  dated  from  an  episode  two  days  earlier.  On 
Tuesday  afternoon  he  had  met  Mary  Wing  over  by  the  High 
School,  not  entirely  by  chance,  and  had  turned  and  walked 
with  her.  She  was  alone,  for  a  wonder;  but  she  had  begun  at 
once  to  talk  of  the  unhappy  Miss  Trevenna,  fairly  bursting 
out  as  to  the  way  she  was  being  persecuted,  and  so  forth. 
Miss  Trevenna  had  "lost"  two  places  already,  it  seemed. 
And  Charles,  seeing  how  much  to  heart  Mary  took  the  luckless 
girl's  troubles,  suddenly  felt  sorry  for  her  —  yes,  he  ventured 
to  feel  sorry  for  Mary  Wing!  —  and  did  what  he  had  posi 
tively  resolved  not  to  do.  He,  also,  dropped  a  hint  to  Mary. 

The  memory  of  that  unwisdom  was  with  him  yet,  as  an 
exasperation  and  a  hurt. 

It  had  profited  him  nothing  that  he  approached  the  task, 
circumspectly,  in  his  light,  humorous  vein.  "Did  you  ever 
hear  what  Susan  B.  Anthony  said  when  she  had  tried  using 
bloomers  for  a  year?"  he  had  inquired,  positively  jovial. 
"Said  she  was  convinced  that  one  reform  at  a  time  was  all 
that  one  person  could  manage!"  But  Mary  Wing  had  said 
instantly,  "You  apply  this  to  me,"  and  right  there  had  the 
trouble  begun.  "Are  n't  you  crippling  yourself  needlessly?" 
he  had  amiably  suggested.  "Is  it  wise  to  feed  the  popular 
delusion  that  any  sort  of  reformer  is  all  sorts  of  an  anarchist?  " 
To  which  she  replied,  quite  indignantly,  "This  is  n't  a  ques 
tion  of  reform  at  all  with  me !  —  if  you  must  have  it  explained 
to  you."  And  when  he  asked  her  what  she  expected  to  accom 
plish  exactly,  she  declared  that  in  point  of  fact  a  great  deal 
had  been  accomplished  already;  Miss  Trevenna's  father  had 
seen  her,  for  one  thing,  and  it  seemed  but  a  matter  of  time 
before  she  would  be  forgiven  and  taken  back.  "  But  if  nothing 
was  accomplished  in  a  thousand  years,"  said  Mary,  "I'd  still 
do  exactly  what  I  am  doing! " 

82 


Angela's    Business 


The  worst  of  it  was  that  one  large  disunited  side  of  Charles 
stuck  it  out  that  Mary  was  doing  exactly  right:  he  knew, 
indeed,  whatever  she  might  say  for  argument,  that  all  this 
was  chiefly  a  matter  of  her  sympathies,  and  she  no  more 
believed  in  this  sort  of  Freedom  than  he  did.  Hence  his 
counter-argument  had  not  been  up  to  his  best  standard,  a 
mere  urging  of  timid  prudences,  it  seemed.  And  very  soon 
she  had  swooped  on  his  weakness,  silencing  him  at  a  stroke:  — 

"1 11  not  drop  an  old  friend  just  because  it 's  safer !  I '11  not. 
Mr.  Garrott,  you  disappoint  me." 

Now,  no  man  on  earth  enjoys  being  told  that  he  has  dis 
appointed  a  friend,  least  of  all  a  woman  friend,  in  a  matter 
involving  courage.  Mr.  Garrott  held  that  word  ungracious 
from  Mary.  And  now,  as  he  strode  silently  toward  his  evening 
of  pleasure,  he  seemed  to  feel  that  there  was,  indeed,  a  kind 
of  hardness  in  her,  and,  as  to  him,  a  certain  air  of  assured 
superiority  such  as  could  not  be  further  tolerated. 

How,  then,  should  he  deport  himself  toward  Mary  now, 
seeing  her  again  at  the  bridge-party?  Through  long  blocks, 
Charles  pondered  the  question.  While  leaning  from  the  first 
toward  a  manner  of  brilliant  tolerance,  slightly  aloof,  indeed, 
yet  splendidly  witty,  he  really  had  not  settled  the  point 
finally  in  his  mind,  when  Miss  Angela  opened  her  front  door 
for  him,  and  said,  almost  in  the  first  breath:  — 

"Oh,  Mr.  Garrott,  what  do  you  think?  Cousin  Mary  and 
Mr.  Manford  both  backed  out!  7  hope  you  don't  mind  playing 
three-hand!" 

Taken  completely  by  surprise,  the  young  man  hardly 
repressed  a  bitter  mirth. 

But  that,  after  all,  was  for  his  wasted  evening  only.  And 
in  a  moment  he  was  himself  again,  doing  his  deed  of  kindness, 
distributing  pleasure  among  the  young  and  lonesome. 


Angela's    Business 


He  was  not,  indeed,  he  considered,  one  to  think  the  less 
of  a  girl  for  being  poor  but  hospitable,  for  desiring  to  "  enter 
tain,"  when,  the  too  obvious  fact  was,  she  had  nobody  to  en 
tertain.  The  three-hand's  party  rather  touched  than  repelled 
Charles;  he  criticized  not  Angela,  but  Mary  Wing,  who  had 
stayed  away.  Moreover,  the  other  guest  turned  out  to  be 
Fanny  Warder,  which  suited  him  unexpectedly  well.  Grieved 
though  he  was  by  Fanny's  broken  beauty,  she  had  become 
a  Case  to  him  now,  one  more  exhibit  in  the  growing  gallery 
of  Woman's  Unrest. 

And  certainly,  when  it  was  all  over,  it  never  once  occurred 
to  Charles  to  think  of  this  evening  as  a  waste,  exactly. 

Into  the  mysteries  of  three-hand,  as  pursued  in  the  Flower 
parlor  that  evening,  it  will  do  well  not  to  follow.  The  play 
really  was  not  the  thing,  as  Angela  had  implied  to  her  Cousin 
Mary,  when  speaking  of  Donald.  Fanny  Warder  played  a 
poor  game;  everybody  said  that.  Of  course,  she  had  only 
come  to  help  out,  but  still,  one  could  not  avoid  observing  how 
treacherous  were  her  bids,  or  crying  out  upon  her  when  she 
was  discovered  slumbering  with  the  three  highest  hearts.  A 
great  deal  of  jumping  up  and  changing  seats  there  was,  a 
great  deal  of  discussion  each  time  as  to  which  one  had  better 
jump  and  change,  constant  demands  of,  " Whose  bid  is  it?" 
and,  "Who  dealt  these  cards?"  But  there  was  much  girlish 
laughter,  too;  merry  prattle  flowed  unceasingly;  "a  good  time 
was  had." 

And  Angela's  bridge-party  had,  as  Charles  viewed  it,  one 
sterling  merit:  it  ended  early.  It  is  a  point  which,  as  is  well 
known,  rests  entirely  in  the  hands  of  the  hostess,  according  to 
when  she  elects  to  bring  on  her  refreshments;  and  when 
Angela  rose  soon  after  ten  o'clock  and  tripped  away  alone  to 
get  "the  party,"  as  she  called  it,  the  author's  whole  opinion  of 

84 


Angela's    Business 


her  went  up  at  a  bound.  He  had  known  women,  thus  having 
you  at  their  mercy,  to  keep  you  sitting  around  till  midnight 
before  ever  mentioning  "  the  party,"  and  then  sometimes  those 
horrible  jolly  girls  made  you  romp  back  to  the  pantry  and 
help. 

And  when,  after  a  considerable  interval,  Miss  Angela 
returned,  bearing  her  refreshments  on  a  large  tin  tray,  the 
young  authority  again  took  the  large  view,  sympathetically 
seeing  the  general  behind  the  particular.  The  refreshments 
consisted  of  lettuce  and  tomato  salad,  together  with  crackers, 
a  little  cheese,  ice-water,  and  a  small  box  of  candy.  Charles 
could  not  conceal  from  himself  that  the  salad  was  poor,  the 
dressing  had  "run,"  the  crackers  were  without  crackle,  the 
candy  cheap,  the  ice- water  warm;  but,  in  a  subtle  sort  of  way, 
all  this  made  him  feel  not  less,  but  more,  friendly  toward 
his  simple  young  hostess.  Not  knowing  that  she  could  not 
make  mayonnaise,  or  suspecting  that  her  little  brother  had 
reluctantly  stood  treat  to  the  candy,  his  fancy  pictured  the 
girl  as  preparing  the  modest  spread  for  her  (two)  friends  with 
her  own  hands  and  thought,  her  heart  full  of  pleasant  antici 
pations  the  while.  And  this  seemed  normal  and  human  to 
Charles,  and  sweet  enough,  and  just  a  little  pathetic  besides. 
Angela,  gayly  setting  out  her  three  plates,  was  again  a  type 
and  a  symbol.  She  was  all  the  poor  Nice  Girls  in  the  world, 
ten  million  poor  Nice  Girls  scattered  over  the  earth  that  night 
who,  the  day's  justifying  labors  done,  were  trying  to  create  a 
little  joy  for  themselves  and  others,  sweetly  pursuing  their 
great  business  of  Supplying  Beauty  and  Supplying  Charm.  .  .  . 

But  while  Angela  was  still  in  the  rearward  regions,  making 
ready  her  tray,  Charles  engaged  in  a  scientific  talk  with  his 
old  friend  Fanny.  It  both  interested  and  depressed  him. 

Mary's  young  sister  had  taken  Harold  Warder  out  of  a 

85 


Angela's    Business 


field  unusually  large  for  these  lean  days.  Harold  had  been  in 
love  with  her  from  his  knickerbocker  days,  and  was  consid 
ered  to  be  "doing  very  well";  the  match  had  been  a  most 
promising  one.  But  ill-luck  had  pursued  the  young  couple 
from  the  first,  assuming  the  worst  of  all  forms,  unceasing 
doctor's  bills.  Fanny,  beyond  any  counting,  had  had  long 
illnesses  following  the  births  of  both  her  children;  and  the 
expenses  of  the  first  one  had  swamped  Warder,  wiping  out  at 
once  the  rainy-day  margin  he  had  married  on.  That  Mary 
Wing  secretly  sent  money  to  Fanny,  Charles  was  morally 
certain.  But  Fanny  was  well  again  now,  and  poverty  and 
debt  were  wont  to  be  the  butts  of  young  love.  Why,  then, 
was  her  pretty  face  drawn  to  a  birdlike  thinness;  why  this 
beaten  look  in  eyes  that  were  once  so  gay? 

Tete-a-t£te  over  the  three-hand  table,  Mrs.  Warder  sur 
prised  Charles  by  saying  that  she  wanted  to  go  back  to  work; 
her  husband,  however,  would  not  hear  of  such  a  thing. 
Charles,  though  a  modern,  said  naturally  not. 

"I  can  earn  a  hundred  a  month,"  said  Fanny,  "and  get  a 
perfect  nurse  for  twenty-five." 

He  explained  the  error  in  her  utilitarianism.  Intently 
shuffling  the  cards  on  the  table,  he  pointed  out  the  injustice 
of  orphaning  Paulie  and  Neddy- Weddy  of  their  mother-love. 
Fanny's  own  mind  seemed  greatly  unsettled.  But  she  could 
be  as  straightforward  as  Mary  with  those  she  was  fond  of. 

"Harold  supposed,"  she  said,  presently,  "that  he  was 
marrying  a  lively  young  person,  one  that  he,  at  least,  would 
find  indefinitely  entertaining.  He  discovers  instead  that  he 's 
got  an  ailing  woman  on  his  hands,  one  with  no  spirits  or  looks 
at  all  worth  mentioning.  Could  you  blame  him  if  he  woke  up 
some  day  and  said,  'I've  been  cheated?"3 

And  the  Young  Wife  slowly  added:  "It'll  be  years  before 

86 


Angela's    Business 


he  gets  his  head  above  water  again.  And  that's  my  doing, 
Charles,  —  I,  who  'd  have  cut  off  my  right  arm  to  help  him 
the  least  bit." 

Charles  scolded  her  roundly  for  her  morbidness.  "Great 
heavens!  —  you  must  know  he  could  never  think  that  way! 
Look  how  you  have  helped  him!  If  your  health  went,  you 
gave  it  to  him  —  let  him  hold  that  to  his  heart!  There's 
Paulie  and  the  baby,  that  you  brought  him,  more  than  com 
pensating — " 

But  Mary's  sister  broke  this  argument  with  her  old  laugh. 

"Don't  tempt  me,  Charles!  I'm  all  kinds  of  a  hypocrite 
but  that  kind!  Of  course,  I  wanted  children  a  great  deal  more 
than  Harold,  and  they  're  my  compensation  —  for  everything 

—  not  his  at  all.  You  know  all  that  perfectly  well.  No,  no/' 
said  Fanny,  lowering  her  voice  as  Angela's  returning  steps 
were  heard.   "If  Harold  ever  tires  of  me,  I'll  go,  you  may 
be  sure.   He  won't  find  me  clamping  on  his  shoulders,  claim 
ing  to  be  taken  care  of  for  life  because  of  my  two  little  dar- 
lings.  ..." 

Charles  had  expected  to  walk  home  with  Fanny,  continuing 
the  sad  but  interesting  talk,  but  he  was  frustrated  in  that 
intention  by  the  arrival  of  an  escort  of  Fanny's  own.  This 
proved  to  be  none  other  than  Mr.  Tilletts. 

It  developed  that  the  seeking  widower,  who  was  known 
as  a  sort  of  public  Former  Suitor,  had  called  on  Fanny  this 
evening,  and,  finding  her  about  to  go  out,  had  begged  the 
privilege  of  squiring  her  to  and  fro.  Had  Angela  understood 
this  in  advance,  how  willingly  would  she  have  raised  Three- 
Hand  to  a  Table!  But  at  least  she  could  do  her  best  now  to 
remove  from  Mr.  Tilletts's  mind  the  idea  that  she  was  rude, 

—  derived  at  the  Redmantle  Club,  where  she  had  made  her 
unfortunate  mistake,  —  and  apparently  she  was  successful, 

8? 


Angela's    Business 


for  Charles  heard  the  plump  seeker  say,  "May  I  call?"  quite 
distinctly,  as  they  moved  into  the  hall. 

The  door  shut  on  a  chorus  of  good-nights. 

The  bridge-party  was  over;  and  it  was  only  quarter  of 
eleven.  Charles  turned  toward  the  hat-rack  and  the  Studio. 
And  in  turning,  he  surprised  a  look  in  his  hostess's  dark  eyes, 
which  seemed  to  say,  in  the  most  ingenuous  way:  "At  last, 
a  few  minutes  to  ourselves!" 

All  evening,  he  had  been  aware  of  a  subtly  more  personal 
note  in  Miss  Angela's  manner;  a  coyer  and  engagingly  propri 
etary  note,  which  he,  with  his  known  dispassionateness  toward 
this  sex,  considered  as  intended  for  Fanny  Warder's  benefit. 
Charles  had  not  been  annoyed  by  this:  few  men  repel  the 
adoration  of  a  pretty  girl.  And  now  this  soft  simple  expectancy 
of  hers,  this  girlish  lingering  over  her  somewhat  pathetic 
party,  seemed  beyond  his  kind  heart  (as  he  would  have  put 
it)  to  disappoint.  "You're  not  going!  —  it's  so  early!"  she 
exclaimed,  and  coquetted  prettily  enough:  "I'd  think  you 
were  displeased  with  me  —  promising  to  have  Cousin  Mary 
for  you,  and  then  not  doing  it!  ...  But  you  don't  mind  very 
much,  do  you?" 

Kindly  Charles  capitulated  at  once.  "Pay  my  party-call 
right  now  — ?"  he  threw  out,  gallant  and  yet  thrifty  withal. 
"  If  you 're  sure  I 'm  not  keeping  you  up.  .  .  ." 

So  these  two  reentered  Miss  Angela's  little  parlor,  with  its 
sleeping-car  shape  and  too  prominent  Latrobe  heater:  a  room 
poor  enough  in  itself,  but  having  an  institutional  significance 
when  considered  as  the  Waiting  Room  of  the  Womanly 
Woman.  Here  they  sat  down,  side  by  side,  upon  a  dented 
sofa.  And  here,  before  a  great  while,  there  took  place  a 
somewhat  strange  occurrence. 

There  began  an  animated  flow  of  girlish  chatter. 

88 


Angela's    Business 


"I  have  n't  seen  you  on  Washington  Street  for  three  days 
now,  Mr.  Garrott.  I  believe  you  're  avoiding  me !  I  met  Mr. 
Manford  this  afternoon,  and  what  do  you  think  he  said?  That 
he  could  n't  play  bridge  as  well  as  he  could  build  them,  and 
was  afraid  he'd  be  mobbed  at  a  party!  I  don't  think  he  could 
play  any  worse  than  Fanny,  do  you  ?  But  Mr.  Garrott,  why 
does  he  want  to  go  to  Wyoming ?  I'd  lots  rather  go  to  New 
York,  if  I  were  a  man !  I  asked  him  if  that  river  out  there  he 
was  going  to  dam  was  pretty,  and  he  said  he'd  send  me  a 
picture  post-card  of  it,  when  he  went.  But  I  suppose  he'll 
forget  all  about  it.  .  .  ." 

Mr.  Garrott,  pleasantly  relaxed,  made  suitable  replies  as 
need  arose.  In  his  scientific  way,  he  was  noting  how  fine  and 
clear  Miss  Angela's  skin  was,  what  shining  soft  eyes  she  had, 
how  soothing  and  sweet  was  her  voice.  Certainly  this  girl  did 
not  try  to  create  the  air  that  she  was  your  manly  superior, 
or  address  you  like  a  Self-Made  Man  reproving  his  wife. 

" Fanny's  broken  so  dreadfully,  hasn't  she?  She  was  so 
lovely  and  attractive  as  a  girl.  Tommy  was  crazy  about  her 
when  she  visited  us  in  Mitchellton,  a  long  time  ago.  He  gave 
her  the  loveliest  presents!  But  Tommy  was  always  the  most 
generous  boy.  They  were  getting  up  a  drinking-fountain  as 
a  memorial  to  Major  Beesom  —  he  was  postmaster  for  years 
and  years,  you  know  —  and  Tommy  headed  the  list  with 
twenty-five  dollars,  and  he  was  only  making  forty  a  month! 
I  just  wish  you  could  have  known  Major  Beesom!  I  know 
you  'd  want  to  put  him  in  a  book.  Mr.  Garrott,  I  'm  so  anxious 
to  read  some  of  your  stories!  What  are  your  heroines  like, 
generally?" 

Out  of  which,  she  said  presently,  laughing  and  whisking 
her  hand  behind  her  back :  — 

"You  were  looking  at  my  ring!" 


Angela's    Business 


"Why  not?"  said  Mr.  Garrott,  starting  a  little.  "A  cat 
may  look  at  a  ring." 

That  was  reasonable  surely.  Angela,  after  a  few  teasing 
pretenses,  held  up  her  modest  gimcrack  for  him  to  see.  And 
Charles,  naturally,  accepted  the  hand  so  presented. 

As  to  what  subsequently  occurred,  there  was  always  a 
divided  house  within  the  many-sided  Charles.  But  all  his 
sides  insisted  that,  at  this  point,  he  had  no  interest  in  the 
matter  whatever;  some  held  that  he  had  not  even  seen  the 
ring  till  she  called  attention  to  it.  Now,  bending  over  the 
hand,  he  examined  it,  and  said:  — 

"Well!  This  is  news  to  me,  you  know!" 

"Not  at  all!"  laughed  the  owner  of  the  ring.  "Why,  what 
do  you  mean?" 

"I've  seen  an  engagement  ring  once  before,  you  see." 

"You're  very  clever!  But  —  does  it  have  to  follow  that 
I'm  engaged?" 

"That  was  the  rule,  in  my  day." 

"You  don't  seem  at  all  curious!" 

"I'm  very  curious." 

"Well,  I'm  not,  of  course!" 

"I'm  glad  to  hear  it." 

He  made,  as  it  were,  a  sort  of  sketch  of  a  move  to  release 
the  small  hand  at  this  point.  However,  nothing  seemed  to 
come  of  it. 

"Are  you?  .  .  .  Why?" 

"Oh,  because  —  it's  rather  sad  for  an  old  bystander  like 
me  to  see  all  the  nice  young  people  going  off  two  by  two,  for 
happiness  and  the  great  adventure." 

To  that,  the  girl  made  no  reply.  She  merely  gave  a  little 
laugh,  and  withdrew  her  hand.  The  house  seemed  very  still. 
And  Charles  was  at  once  aware  that  he  had  been  found  some- 
go 


Angela's    Business 


how  deficient  at  the  simple  game  of  parlor  conversation.  In 
a  scarcely  definable  way,  he  felt  himself  rebuked  for  timidity, 
wariness. 

Nevertheless, in  her  simple,  natural  way,  the  girl  made  known 
that  the  ring  was  properly  the  possession  of  a  man  in  Mitchell- 
ton  —  Charles  recalled  Mr.  Jenney  —  and  was  now  worn  only 
by  courtesy,  reminiscently,  as  it  were,  with  no  obligations 
attached. 

"You  see,  his  brothers  all  went  off,  like  all  the  other  men, 
and  his  sister  married  and  went  away,  and  so  he  said  he  would 
stay  in  Mitchellton  with  his  mother.  And  it 's  truly  the  most 
hopeless  place!  He  doesn't  seem  to  have  any  ambition  at 
all  —  it  provoked  me  so !  I  think  all  men  ought  to  have  ambi 
tion,  don't  you?" 

"I  do,  indeed.  And  he  owns  that  pretty  ring,  you 
say?" 

"Yes.  You  see,"  she  said,  laughing  and  coloring,  "when  I 
felt  I  must  break  it  off,  —  well,  he  would  n't  let  it  stay  off 
exactly!  I  —  I'm  telling  you  all  my  secrets!  He  said  he'd 
still  consider  himself  —  oh  —  you  know!" 

"Naturally.  He  had  enough  ambition  for  that." 

And,  as  if  to  show  Miss  Angela  that,  in  point  of  fact,  none 
knew  better  than  he  how  to  talk  to  a  girl  on  a  sofa,  Charles 
carelessly  took  up  that  betrothal  hand  again,  saying:  "So  he 
made  you  keep  the  ring  all  the  same?" 

"The  day  we  left  Mitchellton.  And  I  said  I'd  wear  it  — 
oh,  just  till  I  met  somebody  I  liked  better!  It  was  really 
more  of  a  joke!  ..." 

"Ah!  And  you  haven't  met  such  a  person  yet,  I  ga 
ther?" 

"Oh  —  I'm  not  to  send  it  back  till  I  know  —  " 

"How  long,"  said  the  young  authority,  at  once  completely 


Angela's    Business 


conscious  of  the  supreme  inanity  of  the  proceedings,  and  find 
ing  them  enjoyable  enough,  "how  long  do  you  allow  yourself 
to  find  out?" 

"That  isn't  easy  to  tell.  ...  Do  you  know  you're  the 
strangest  man!" 

"Am  I?  How  do  I  seem  so  strange  to  you?" 

The  little  hand  was  warm,  not  unpleasant  to  retain.  The 
eyes,  gazing  up  at  him,  were  liquid  and  bright;  they  were 
woman's  eyes.  "Consider  me,"  they  seemed  to  say.  "Am  I 
not  sweet,  desirable?  Am  I  not  worthy  to  be  held  dear  ?  Was 
I  not  made  to  delight?  See,  I  am  Woman,  beside  you.  ..." 

"Oh,"  said  the  soft  voice,  "the  way  you  do.  Cousin  Mary 
says  you're  the  new  sort  of  man,  that  is  n't  interested  in  girls 
at  all.  You  're  too  clever  to  care  anything  about  them.  Are 
you?" 

"Clever?  I'd  call  that  the  stupidest  thing  in  the  world." 

"Then  you  do  like  them!  I'm  so  glad.  I 've  wondered,  you 
see.  .  .  ." 

The  feminine  speeches,  the  appeal  of  these  eyes,  seemed  all 
at  once  to  create  an  enveloping  pressure,  softer  than  nothing, 
yet  extraordinary.  Or  possibly  the  trouble  was  that  Dionysius, 
after  all,  had  freed  his  eyes  of  the  magic  more  brilliantly  than 
his  creator. 

"What  sort  of  girls  do  you  like?  Tell  me?"  said  the  voice 
of  Woman,  nearer. 

And  then  in  the  suddenest  way  conceivable  there  took  place 
the  Strange  Occurrence  referred  to.  Without  the  smallest 
premeditation,  Charles  bent  and  touched  his  lips  to  that 
smooth  invitational  cheek. 

On  that  central  point  there  is  not  the  slightest  room  for 
doubt.  Let  there  be  no  wriggling  or  evasion  here.  Charles 
Garrott,  who  scorned  La  Femme  and  viewed  Woman  ex- 

92 


Angela's    Business 


clusively  as  a  Movement,  did  bend  his  neck  and  kiss  the 
Mitchellton  Home-Maker  upon  a  sofa. 

He  meant  the  salute,  he  was  afterward  certain,  as  but  a 
fatherly  tribute  to  youth  and  beauty,  or  (considered  in  an 
other  way)  but  the  expected,  and  in  a  sense  purely  conven 
tional,  move  in  the  ancient  parlor-game.  But  on  such  a  move 
as  this  homes  have  been  broken,  families  set  to  mutual 
slaughter,  thrones  shaken,  history  changed.  Charles,  to  put  it 
in  a  word,  found  it  easier  to  begin  paying  his  tributes  than 
gracefully  to  desist  from  them. 

Prompted  by  a  not  unnatural  curiosity,  the  lady  (who  had 
not  proved  more  than  maidenly  surprised  or  rebuking)  said:  — 

"Oh!  ...  Why  do  you  do  this?" 

Who  knows  what  trusting  heart  first  voiced  that  imme 
morial  question?  Charles  Garrott,  at  least,  was  not  the  first 
gentleman  on  earth  to  fail  to  utter  promptly  the  one  satis 
factory  commentary  on  his  behavior.  Miss  Angela  made  that 
little,  gentle  note  of  interrogation  which  cannot  be  written, 
and  then  she  said  again:  — 

"  Tell  me  —  why  do  you?  " 

Then  it  was  as  if  the  intrinsic  pointedness  of  that  query 
penetrated  the  man,  suddenly  and  sharply.  It  was  the  mere 
force  of  iteration,  no  doubt;  but  all  at  once  the  soft  voice 
seemed  possessed  of  a  certain  insistence,  tinctured  with  a 
certain  definite  expectation,  you  might  say.  Now  that 
Charles  stopped  to  think  of  it,  why  was  he  doing  this? 

The  young  man's  arms  fell,  as  if  something  had  burned 
them.  He  rose  abruptly  and  strode  away  to  the  mantelpiece, 
where,  however,  the  Latrobe  heater  spoiled  any  hope  of  an 
effective  pose. 

If  he  meant  thus  to  signify  that  the  little  episode  was  closed 
and  done  with,  life,  unluckily,  was  not  quite  so  simple  as  that. 

93 


Angela's    Business 


The  pretty  Home-Maker,  having  gazed  at  his  back-  or  side- 
view  a  moment,  as  if  bewildered,  said  in  an  uncertain  voice: — 

"I  —  I  don't  understand  you  at  all.  Why  did  you  do  that? " 

Putting  down  the  impulse  to  bolt,  and  the  even  more  aston 
ishing  impulse  to  return  to  that  fatal  sofa,  Charles  Garrott 
braced  himself  to  reply.  In  this  effort  he  was  handicapped  by 
emotions  altogether  unknown  to  most  young  men  who  sit 
upon  sofas.  For  example:  What  would  the  lady  in  Sweden 
have  to  say  to  this  little  affair? 

He  confronted  a  fact  which  he  had  temporarily  lost  sight  of: 
that  he  who  pays  these  tributes  must  pay  for  them  to  the  full. 
Half  of  him  might  feel  resentful  and  furious,  but  it  was  clear 
that  the  whole  of  him,  the  net  Charles,  must  cut  a  sorry  figure 
for  a  while.  Half  of  him  might  be  crying  out,  stern  as  science 
itself:  "Come,  girl,  be  honest!  Don't  go  about  dropping 
matches  into  gunpowder,  and  then  pretend  to  be  surprised 
at  the  explosion."  But  the  net  Charles,  brightly  flushed,  was 
speaking  lamely  as  a  schoolboy :  — 

"Well!  Do  you  think  I  could  be  blamed  — -exactly?  It— - 
it  seemed  such  an  awfully  natural  thing  to  do.  You  —  ah  — 
it  seemed  I  —  I  could  n't  do  anything  else  /  .  .  ." 

"I  see,"  said  the  girl  slowly. 

"Ah  —  you  —  you're  a  very  kissable  person,  you  must 
know  —  " 

"And  do  you  always  go  about  kissing  people  you  think  are 
kissable?" 

The  young  man  shrank  as  from  a  blow.  Not  looking  once 
in  her  direction,  he  did  not  note  that  she  had  spoken  with 
a  quivering  lip.  With  a  great  effort  at  lightness,  he 
stammered:  — 

"Well,  hardly!  It  must  be  that  I  don't  often  meet  people 
who  —  who  are  as  k-k-kissable  as  you  —  " 

94 


Angela's    Business 


"I  suppose  I  ought  to  feel  flattered." 

There  was  a  miserable  silence. 

"I  was  mistaken  in  you,"  continued  the  Nice  Girl's  stricken 
voice.  "I  —  I  trusted  you.  I  supposed  you  were  too  honorable 
—  I  did  n't  think— " 

That  word  seemed  to  touch  him  to  the  quick.  He  spoke 
with  desperate  stiffness. 

"  I  am  honorable,  I  hope.  Miss  Flower  —  are  n't  you  taking 
this  too  —  too  seriously,  perhaps?  After  all,  you  — " 

She  astonished  him  by  bursting  into  tears. 

And  all  modernity  became  as  nothing  then,  and  Charles 
was  simple  man,  horrified  by  the  sight  of  woman's  grief.  Now 
his  abasement  became  complete;  now  he  groveled  most  prop 
erly;  never,  he  vowed,  would  he  cease  to  censure  himself  most 
severely  for  this  Occurrence.  He  wheedled,  he  implored,  he 
cajoled.  But,  of  course,  all  this  but  made  the  matter  worse, 
threw  his  wary,  inexcusable  omissions  into  sharper  and  sharper 
relief.  And  presently  Miss  Angela  referred  to  him  as  brutal 
(did  she  not  pause  even  after  that,  in  a  sort  of  expectant  way?) 
and  then  ended  the  tragedy  by  begging  him  to  leave  her, 
her  fatally  ringed  hands  held  fast  before  her  eyes. 

No  such  conclusion  to  the  evening  of  wholesome  pleasure 
could  have  been  devised  by  the  wit  of  fiction- writers.  Charles 
gathered  up  his  hat  and  coat  like  a  thief,  and  let  himself  gently 
out  into  the  night. 


VIII 

HE  turned  in  at  the  Green  Park,  in  the  still  night,  and 
stood  gazing  with  bitterness  at  a  dim  gigantic  Citi 
zen,  who  rose  in  bronze  at  the  intersection  of  two 
walkways.  The  Citizen  gazed  back  with  no  bitterness  at  all; 
but  then,  he  was  dead. 

Charles  Garrott,  being  very  much  alive,  was  thinking 
cadlike  thoughts  with  clarity  and  vigor.  In  the  romances,  men 
who  won  a  maiden's  sweet  kiss  instantly  besought  her  to 
name  the  day;  failing  that,  they  were  cads.  But  Charles  was 
resolved  to  fail  that,  and  he  was  struggling  determinedly  not 
to  feel  a  cad.  He  simply  did  not  consider  that  Miss  Angela's 
kiss  had  such  a  pricelessness,  entailing  cosmic  responsibilities. 
Why  was  her  kiss  any  sweeter  than  his  own,  to  come  right 
down  to  it? 

Now  pure  remorse  had  faded:  self-interest,  outraged  self- 
respect,  fought  to  have  their  say.  Indeed,  Miss  Angela  herself 
could  not  well  feel  more  mortified  over  those  unimagined 
salutes  than  he,  the  New  Man,  did.  And  it  was  as  if  his  humil 
iation  had  destroyed  all  that  restraining  sense  of  a  bond  here, 
and  the  brutal  Charles  was  free  now  for  a  frank  facing  of  his 
new  reactions. 

"Well,  I  won't  marry  her!  I  won't,"  said  he  to  the  calm 
Citizen.  "I'll  call  myself  names  for  her,  yes;  I'll  send  her 
bonbons  —  flowers  —  that  sort  of  thing.  I  '11  land  Donald  for 
her  —  that 's  a  thought !  I  '11  get  her  invited  to  the  Thursday 
German.  But  marry  her!  .  .  .  No,  the  kindest  thing  would 
be  never  to  see  her  again." 

96 


WELL,  I  WON'T  MARRY  HER!    I  WON'T! 


Angela's    Business 


And,  gazing  up  in  the  silent  darkness  of  the  park,  the  un- 
heroic  young  man  began  to  think  how  he  could  go  to  Ber- 
ringer's  by  the  Center  Street  cars,  and  take  his  walks  hence 
forth  in  the  manufacturing  district,  and  in  far  countrysides. 

Between  Miss  Flower's  and  the  park,  Charles  had  been 
briefly  unnerved  by  a  disruptive  thought.  This  girl  loved  him. 
Recollections  from  his  salad  days  rushed  on  him,  memories 
of  swift  violent  fancies  women  took  to  him.  He  was  cursed, 
it  seemed,  with  a  fatal  fascination.  Women  might  be  practi 
cally  engaged  to  other  men;  they  might  be  at  the  altar's 
hinges;  but  he  could  not  stroll  among  them  with  his  devilish 
gift  without  scattering  ruin  amid  the  troths.  If  he  was  not 
openly  rude  to  them,  they  took  it  as  direct  encouragement; 
if  he  was  civil,  from  him  they  viewed  it  as  wooing;  and  when 
actually  crowned  with  the  deliberate  kiss  .  .  . 

But  these  bachelor  terrors  he  had  exploded  with  one 
"Piffle!"  spoken  so  loudly  that  two  young  street-car  con 
ductors,  passing  to  or  from  a  car-barn,  no  doubt,  nudged  and 
jeered.  Oh,  no,  Miss  Angela  was  not  in  love  with  him.  She  had 
merely  conceived  that  he,  Charles,  was  in  love  with  her.  (A 
stinging  thought  this,  even  while  it  vastly  reassured.)  Yes, 
this  rudimentary  country  cousin,  whom  he  had  felt  sorry  for 
because  of  her  loneliness,  whom  he  had  been  interested  in 
purely  as  a  Type  (he  maintained),  with  which  to  cudgel  the 
hard  utilitarian  egoism  of  another  sort  of  woman  —  this  little 
creature  must  needs  suppose  that  he,  Charles  Garrott,  who 
knew  the  most  attractive  women  there  were,  had  fallen  a 
victim  to  her  village  arts  and  bucolic  wiles. 

Great  heavens!  —  Oh,  the  cheek!  Oh,  the  naive  compla 
cence  of  the  naivest  sex  the  Lord  ever  made!  .  .  . 

Why,  he  had  never  paid  the  smallest  attention  to  this  girl ; 
never  taken  dog's  notice  of  her,  you  might  say!  Booting 

97 


Angela's    Business 


pebbles  this  way  and  that  in  the  darkness,  the  angry  young 
man  reviewed  the  circumstances  with  scientific  dispassionate 
ness  (as  he  considered).  Compulsorily  introduced  by  the  firm 
Mary,  he  had  spoken  politely  to  the  girl;  kindly  presented  a 
suitable  young  friend  or  two;  and  therewith  considered  that 
the  whole  matter  was  closed.  But  no,  on  the  contrary;  one 
pleasant  smile  from  him,  and  the  Womanly  Woman  was  up 
and  doing. 

She  had  pumped  out  of  him  the  hour  at  which  he  took  his 
walks  (he  knew  nothing  about  the  opera-glasses  as  yet) ;  and 
straightway  she  began  waylaying  him  on  the  street,  nothing 
less.  She  had  all  but  forced  a  book  on  him,  which  he  would 
have  to  return  with  a  "call"  —  she  supposed;  when  lie  did 
not  call,  she  did  something  which  could  only  be  described  as 
inveigling  him  to  her  home  (that  was  his  word  now),  by  the 
shallow  ruse  of  a  bridge-party;  and  then  and  there  she  had 
(you  might  say)  flung  both  arms  about  his  neck  and  kissed  him. 
And  by  these  proceedings,  it  appeared  to  her,  in  that  queer 
world  where  Nice  Girls  lived,  that  she  had  affixed  a  claim  upon 
him,  fairly  bagged  his  heart,  in  short.  "  Why  do  you  do  this?  " 
said  she,  insistently.  Oh,  how  simple  life  looked  to  such  as 
these,  her  and  her  sisters  of  the  Naive  Sex!  Forever  putting 
that  stereotyped  query,  forever  expecting  to  elicit  the  hoarse 
but  extremely  welcome  reply,  "Because  I  love  you  so!"  No 
conquest  too  extraordinary  to  seem  at  all  surprising  to  their 
quaint  little  self -appro  val ! 

There  was  humor  now  in  his  imagining  of  the  Womanly 
Woman  as  quietly  waiting  at  home  to  be  wooed.  It  appeared 
that  Miss  Angela  had  done  everything  but  that. 

A  church  clock  boomed  suddenly:  it  was  half -past  eleven. 
The  young  man's  eyes  fell  from  the  face  of  the  Citizen. 
Through  the  stark  stems  of  the  winter  trees  a  yellow  light 

98 


Angela's    Business 


glowed  strongly  in  a  lower  window.  That  was  Olive  Street 
there;  this  light  shone  in  the  Wings'  house.  He  noted  it 
absently,  wondering  why  Mary  worked  so  late  to-night.  On 
the  heels  of  that  came  another  wonder,  more  personal:  What 
would  Mary  think  of  these  proceedings  upon  a  sofa? 

There  must  have  been  a  bracing  quality  in  the  thought  of 
Mary  Wing,  for  Charles's  hot  desire  to  justify  himself  chilled 
instantly.  Mary  had  her  faults,  heaven  knew;  but  she  had 
nothing  to  do  with  sofas.  In  a  wink,  the  young  man  became 
staggered  at  himself.  For  there  was  nothing  he  had  been 
thinking  just  now  that  he  had  not  seen  clearly  for  many  years 
past.  What,  then?  Had  his  vision  of  late  been  blurred  in  the 
cheapest  way  conceivable?  When  he  told  himself  that  he  was 
scientifically  commending  the  supplying  of  Beauty  and  Charm, 
was  it  possible  that  he,  Charles  Garrott,  had  been  subtly 
allured  by  La  Femme? 

From  outraged  and  resentful,  Charles  became  let  down 
and  depressed.  Standing  and  gazing  at  Mary  Wing's  bright 
light,  he  found  his  whole  point  of  view  shifting.  He,  of  course, 
was  blameworthy,  not  this  soft  bit  of  unthinking  femininity. 
Turned  out  without  a  lesson  and  with  but  one  way  of  life  — 
what  could  she  do  but  signify,  like  her  mothers,  that  she  was 
ready  to  twine  about  her  oak?  So  again,  Charles  saw  the  girl 
he  had  left  in  tears  as  a  being  mysteriously  wistful  and  pa 
thetic.  And  still  she  was  a  type  to  him,  still  a  symbol  of 
myriads  of  girls,  waiting  over  the  world:  Girls  brought  up  by 
simple  parents  who  assumed  that  life  was  still  as  simple  as 
they;  girls  made  to  stake  their  whole  lives  on  the  vague 
expectation  that,  because  they  are  girls,  some  man  or  other 
will  be  sure  to  want  them  some  day;  a  million  girls  waiting, 
day  by  day  and  year  by  year,  while  all  they  have  to  offer  life 
fades  away  under  their  eyes.  .  .  . 

99 


Angela's    Business 


The  young  authority  trailed  out  of  the  park  feeling  much 
like  the  cads  of  Romance,  after  all.  And  yet  it  seemed  to 
be  settled  now,  definitely  and  positively,  that  he  would  not 
make  a  Womanly  Woman  the  heroine  of  his  new  novel. 

A  light  snow  had  begun  to  fall.  Other  people  than  Charles 
Garrott  moved  homeward  from  evenings  of  beauty,  charm  and 
pleasure.  Motor-cars  rolled  on  Washington  Street.  Emerging 
from  the  Green  Park,  Charles  moodily  saluted  two  young  men 
who  stood  there  on  a  corner;  one  was  his  good  friend,  Talbott 
Maxon,  but  the  author  passed  him  almost  like  a  stranger. 
To  all  intercourse  with  his  kind  he  felt  utterly  averse.  Never 
theless,  when  he  passed  the  door  of  the  Bellevue  Club,  pres 
ently,  he  found  his  privacy  ruthlessly  invaded. 

Down  the  wide  steps  between  the  two  columnar  lights  — 
exactly  as  on  that  other  evening  when  it  had  all  begun  — 
came  shambling  the  loose  figure  of  Uncle  Oliver  Wing.  Only 
now  Uncle  Oliver's  large  face  was  faintly  flushed,  his  large 
felt  hat  was  pulled  over  his  eyes,  his  very  large  cigar  was 
rakishly  uptilted  toward  the  heavens.  From  which  it  was  con 
cluded  that  Mr.  Wing  was  not  less  than  five  drinks  and  five 
dollars  the  better  for  his  little  card-party  at  the  Club. 

" Let's  see  now,  Charlie,  —  what  was  it  you  asked  me?" 
said  Mr.  Wing,  catching  stride  and  slipping  his  arm  through 
the  silent  young  man's.  "Did  I  believe  in  this  Woman's 
Movement,  was  n't  that  it?" 

Resenting  the  intrusion,  Charles  replied  coldly:  "That  was 
it,  I  believe." 

Mr.  Wing  appeared  no  whit  abashed.  "Well,  Charlie,  fact 
is  I  believe  in  most  any  kind  of  a  movement,  as  I  reckon  you 
know,  and  all  I  ask  about  any  of  'em  is,  where 's  the  harm  of 
moving  kind  of  slow,  and  taking  a  few  good  squints  around 
as  we  go.  That  'd  about  give  my  view  that  you  asked  me  for," 

100 


; 
Angela's    Business 

said  the  money-lender,  a  known  reactionary  in  theory  and 
practice  —  "Move  slow  and  squint." 

Genially,  he  took  a  fresh  grip  on  the  arm  Charles  had  almost 
detached,  and  therewith  went  off  into  an  ill-timed  long 
rigmarole.  So  convivially  windy  was  Mr.  Wing  that  he  had 
talked  steadily  through  two  blocks  before  it  came  over 
Charles,  with  force,  that  Mary's  uncle  had  had  a  sharp  aim 
from  the  beginning. 

"Now,  you  take,  for  instance,  this  privilege  of  work  they're 
all  clamoring  for,  Charlie.  Women  must  n't  be  parasites; 
give  us  the  privilege  of  work,  they  say.  And  that's  right,  too; 
give  'em  all  they'll  take's  my  view.  But,  Charlie,  my  obser 
vation  is  that  when  a  woman  clamors  that  way,  it's  ten  to 
one  she's  thinking  of  work  like  being  governor,  or  a  great 
public  speaker  maybe,  or  Miss  Jane  Addams,  out  to  Hull 
House  there.  But  if  you  ask  me,  are  they  willing  to  work  like 
men  do,  just  so's  not  to  have  you  call  'em  parasites  —  well, 
that's  where  I  say,  let's  stop  and  squint  around.  Of  course, 
now,  whenever  you  see  a  rich  man's  daughter  refusing  to 
touch  her  daddy's  money,  and  jumping  up  mornings  by  an 
alarm-clock  to  catch  the  7.42,  and  when  you  see  her  working 
nine  hours  a  day,  winter  and  summer,  at  a  job  it  makes  her 
sick  to  look  at,  for  ten  little  dollars  a  week,  and  no  brass  band 
or  fireworks  anywhere  —  why,  then  you  got  a  right  to  say, 
that  woman  hates  being  a  parasite.  But,  Charlie,  you're  so 
quiet,  you  don't  say  anything,  I  don't  guess  you're  following 
while  I  try  to  answer  that  question  you  asked  me." 

"Oh,  I  follow  you,"  replied  Charles,  with  annoyance. 

Mr.  Wing  shot  one  keen  glance  at  the  young  man's  face, 
and  another  ahead  as  if  to  measure  the  distance  yet  remaining 
to  his  domicile. 

"Well,  now,  morals,  Charlie!"  he  continued,  most  agree- 


Angela's    Business 


ably.  "  Lor',  the  things  our  little  gals  do  say  nowadays !  Make 
you  laugh  right  out  loud.  Ain't  it  funny  how  innocent  women 
can  keep,  now?  Up  and  take  their  cocktails,  yes,  and  smoke 
their  cigarettes,  and  talk  right  out,  white  slave  this,  and  red- 
light  that,  and  all  the  time  —  no  more  notion  /  .  .  .  Why, 
Charlie,  you  would  n't  believe  the  pretty-faced  little  gal,  no 
more  'n  twenty-two  years  old,  I  heard  making  a  public  speech 
once,  and  what  do  you  think  her  subject  was  ?  '  My  plea/ 
says  she, '  is  a  single  standard  of  morality  for  men  and  women. 
Whatever  man  may  do,'  says  she,  'that  we  claim  woman's 
right  to  do  also.'" 

The  old  gasbag  broke  off  to  say,  "How-do,  Ed,"  to  a 
passer  in  the  filtering  snow,  knocked  the  ashes  from  his  cigar 
with  the  large  hand  that  was  not  clutching  Charles,  and 
resumed. 

"Well,  Charlie,  I'd  been  sitting  there  meek  as  peaches 
while  that  little  gal  explained  to  us  all  about  men  and  women, 
but  when  she  gets  that  off,  and  right  away  asks  if  anybody 
in  the  audience  has  got  any  questions,  seemed  like  I  could  n't 
sit  still  any  longer.  'Excuse  me,'  I  says,  standing  up,  'but 
d'  ye  make  a  plea  for  the  single  standard  of  physical  courage 
also,  miss? '  I  says.  '  What  say? '  she  sings  out,  pretending  not 
to  hear  me,  while  she  tries  to  think  what  it  said  in  that  book 
she'd  been  reading.  'It's  a  little  thing,  miss,'  I  says,  'only  an 
old  fellow's  way  of  saying  if  maybe  Godalmighty  did  n't 
figure  a  little  variety  'd  be  a  good  thing  in  this  hard  world  he 
gave  us.  When  the  ship  goes  down,'  I  says,  'do  you  call  on 
your  sisters  for  the  single  standard  of  courage,  miss,  or  do 
you  hold  by  the  men's  rule  of  the  sea  and  the  land,  and  hop 
into  the  lifeboats  with  the  kids?  Excuse  a  plain  old  fellow  from 
speakin'  up  this  way,  miss,'  I  says,  'but  seems  to  me  maybe 
Godalmighty  might  have  known  what  he  was  doing  when  he 

102 


Angela's    Business 


gave  women  more  feeling,  and  men  more  fighting  strength; 
when  he  appointed  women  to  give  life  and  men  to  guard  it; 
when,  as  you  might  put  it,  he  appointed  some  virtues  for 
both  to  hold  in  common,  and  then  some  for  each  of  'em  to 
grow  and  cultivate  specially.  And  maybe,  miss/  I  says, 
1  Godalmighty  made  the  distribution  fairer  than  some  of  our 
college  gals  realize.'  Well,  Charlie,  you  ought  to  have  heard 
the  hand  the  crowd  gave  me,  though  there  was  some  hissin' 
by  Suffragettes,  I  own.  And  what  d'ye  think  that  cute- 
lookin'  little  thing  does?  'I  deny,'  she  sings  out,  her  voice 
shaking,  '  that  God  gave  more  strength  to  men.  I  deny  there 
is  a  God,'  she  says.  And  right  there  she  bu'sts  out  crying, 
and  runs  off  the  stage.  .  .  .  Yes,  she  did!  —  first  speech  in 
public  maybe.  Well,  Charlie,  all  I  say  is,  that's  the  kind  of 
loose  talk  our  gals 're  hearing  all  the  time  nowadays.  And 
that,"  said  Mr.  Wing,  coming  to  a  halt  before  his  own  steps, 
and  glancing  hastily  over  his  shoulder  toward  his  door  — 
"that's  why  I  can't  help  feeling  sorry  for  this  little  gal  here 
that  got  into  the  trouble,  and  taking  sides  with  her,  too, 
against  my  public  duty  and  morals.  Why,  Charlie,  she  thought 
all  the  talk  was  meant,  not  seeing  it  was  only  half-foolin', 
like  in  a  play." 

Now  it  was  that  Charles  Garrott's  bored  eye  upon  Uncle 
Oliver  suddenly  became  fixed. 

"Taking  sides  with  her?"  he  said,  speaking  for  almost  the 
first  time  in  the  walk.  "What  do  you  mean?" 

"Well,  that's  just  what  I  did,  the  effect  was,"  said  Mr. 
Wing,  his  own  eye  wandering,  "and  against  my  conscience, 
too.  Why,  Charlie,  if  I  was  n't  an  early  retirer  by  habit,  and 
this  snow  comin'  on,  too,  I  could  show  you  quick  enough 
where  all  this  Single  Standard  was  damfoolishness  —  unless, 
of  course,  you  mean  Perfect  Purity,  like  I  preach  myself. 

103 


Angela's    Business 


And  when  a  woman  jumps  up  and  hits  a  crack  at  marriage, 
that  the  rest  of  us  are  sacrificin'  ourselves  to  build  up  for  the 
good  of  Society,  why,  she's  a  bad  woman,  you  can  talk  till 
you're  black  in  the  face,  that  had  ought  to  be  punished. 
Yes,  and  those  that  help  her,  they  're  lending  encouragement 
to  the  enemies  of  the  Republic,  seems  like,  and  they'd  ought 
to  be  punished,  too.  But,  shucks,"  said  Mr.  Wing,  crushing 
the  fire  from  the  cigar  against  the  iron  railing,  and  putting 
the  stump  carefully  in  his  pocket,  " blood's  thicker 'n  water, 
like  they  say.  And  I  don't  regret  voting  the  way  I  did,  though 
the  majority  was  against  me  from  the  start." 

The  two  men  stood  fronting  each  other  in  the  silent  street, 
and  the  young  man's  face  had  become  rigid.  And  he  was  now 
perfectly  aware  of  the  faint  gleam  in  the  old  man's  eye,  a 
gleam  of  distinctly  malicious  enjoyment. 

"Mr.  Wing,  what  are  you  talking  about?" 

"Why,  I  thought  you  must  have  heard,  Charlie,  you  seemed 
so  kind  of  glum.  Why,  I  thought  you  must  be  on  your  way 
from  Mary's  now." 

He  glanced  again  at  his  door,  as  if  to  say  that  he  really  must 
not  be  expected  to  stop  for  further  conversation  at  this  late 
hour.  And  then  he  said  what  exploded  Miss  Angela  Flower 
off  the  horizon. 

"Why,  Charlie,  you  see  the  School  Board  fired  Mary  this 
afternoon.  On  account  of  this  little  friend  of  hers,  Trevenna, 
that  she— " 

"WHAT?" 

"Well,  transferred 's  really  the  word,  Charlie,"  said  Uncle 
Oliver,  edging  up  a  step  or  two.  "  She 's  sent  over  as  a  teacher 
to  Lee  Grammar  School,  reporting  Monday.  Johnson 
Geddie  's  the  new  assistant  principal  at  the  High  School, 
commencing  Monday,  too.  Well,  Charlie,  good — " 

104 


Angela's    Business 


Charles  seized  the  burly  arm  in  a  grip  sufficiently  strong 
for  a  writer,  and  threw  all  his  turmoil  into  three  words:  "  Who 
went  over?" 

"  Creamer  and  Honeykamp,  I  guess  you  mean.  Of  course, 
there  was  right  smart  feelin'  aroused,  and  it  seemed  Creamer's 
got  a  growin'  daughter  in  the  High  School,  that 's  got  to  be 
protected  and  all.  'T  was  only  Mary's  good  record  saved  her 
being  dropped  entirely,  I  guess,  considering  how  Mysinger'd 
worked  the  case  up  against  her.  Well,  good-night,  Charlie." 

Wrenching  away  his  arm,  Mr.  Wing  rolled  rapidly  up  the 
steps  and  vanished  into  the  dark  cave  of  his  hall.  But  Charles 
stood  still  as  a  snow-man  on  the  sidewalk,  feeling  as  if  the 
skies  had  fallen. 


IX 


SO  Mary  Wing's  name  flared  in  newspaper  headlines 
once  again. 
In  matters  of  school  politics,  the  editorial  writers  of 
the  city  were  habitually  gun-shy,  but  it  was  noted  next  morn 
ing  that  the  reporters  had  treated  Mary  with  marked  consid 
eration.  "Of  all  the  changes  and  new  appointments  ordered 
by  the  Board  in  its  three-hour  session,"  wrote  the  kindly  youth 
on  the  "Post,"  "none  created  such  amazement  as  the  demo 
tion  of  Miss  Wing,  she  having  for  long  been  conceded  to  be 
possibly  the  most  valued  teacher  in  the  city  school  system. 
Members  of  the  Board,  however,  refused  to  explain  their 
totally  unlooked-for  action,  Chairman  Garcin  merely  claiming 
that  'All  changes  were  for  the  good  of  the  schools.'  Charges  of 
politics  were  freely  heard  in  the  lobby,  and  one  well-known 
citizen,  who  prefers  not  to  be  quoted  at  just  this  juncture, 
said,"  etc. 

Reporters,  as  everybody  knows,  must  severely  repress  their 
personal  opinions  and  stick  like  mucilage  to  the  bare  facts. 
But  which  facts  are  the  bare  ones?  Judicious  selection  is  a 
wonderful  thing. 

However,  one  of  Miss  Wing's  admirers  read  the  "Post's" 
amiable  sentences  with  no  abatement  of  his  burning  indigna 
tion.  Print  made  the  thing  immensely  concrete,  and  that  was 
all.  In  Charles's  mind,  every  hard  or  critical  thought  of  Mary 
had  fallen  instantly  in  the  face  of  her  astonishing  disaster;  "I 
told  you  so"  was  not  in  him.  That  his  old  friend's  struggle 
upward  had  collapsed  in  sudden  disgrace:  this  was  bare  fact 

106 


Angela's    Business 


enough  to  possess  him  completely  throughout  the  tutorial  day. 
Here  fell  a  Modern  principle  from  which  he  had  never  wavered, 
the  great  principle  that  a  woman  should  have  a  fair  field  to 
work,  and  fair  judgment,  without  prejudice  of  sex.  All  Mary 
Wing's  success  had  been  entwined  with  that  principle;  since 
she  was  in  her  teens,  she  had  fought  for  it,  in  sunshine  and  in 
thunder;  and  in  that  town  at  least  the  way  was  smoother  for 
all  women  henceforward,  because  of  what  she  had  done.  And 
now  to  break  her,  after  all  these  years,  only  because  she,  a 
woman,  had  refused  to  throw  a  stone  at  a  mistaken  sister  .  .  . 
By  Heavens,  this  could  not  be  endured. 

Thus  Charles  communed  with  himself,  crisply  teaching  the 
Elements,  French  and  Sociology.  And  he  snapped  his  watch 
at  Miss  Grace  Chorister  five  minutes  ahead  of  time  and,  writ 
ing  forgotten,  went  rushing  to  the  support  of  his  "demoted" 
friend. 

But  he  did  not  rush  by  way  of  the  frequented  promenade. 
As  he  had  gone  to  lunch  by  street-car  to-day,  so  his  journey  to 
the  High  School  was  conducted  in  the  same  discreet  manner. 
Through  all  this  unimagined  disturbance  about  Mary,  the 
young  man  had  not  lost  sight  of  his  last  night's  resolve,  formed 
in  the  Green  Park,  as  to  Mary's  so  different  cousin.  Cad  he 
might  be;  understand  it  she  might  not  (in  view  of  the  kiss); 
but  Charles  was  clear  that  it  was  for  the  best  that  he  and 
Miss  Angela  should  meet  upon  Washington  Street  no  more. 

The  " Post's"  story  had  made  one  thing  certain  at  least: 
Mary  did  not  mean  to  tear  up  her  teacher's  certificate  and 
pitch  it,  with  her  resignation,  in  the  faces  of  the  School  Board. 
In  the  still  watches,  Charles  had  thought  she  might  be  capable 
of  just  such  reckless  repartee;  now  he  divined  that  she  was 
reserving  her  resignation,  to  discharge  it,  like  a  bomb,  upon 
her  expected  election  as  Secretary  of  the  Education  Reform 

107 


Angela's    Business 


League.  That  prospect  in  the  Career  blurred  the  situation  con 
siderably,  without  doubt.  Still,  the  secretaryship  was  three 
months  away,  at  the  worst.  And  meanwhile  the  immediate 
problem  thundered  for  attention,  namely,  how  to  get  Mary 
back  into  the  High  School  at  the  earliest  possible  moment? 
Charles,  who  as  a  man  considered  this  problem  his  own  no 
less  than  Mary's,  arrived  at  the  School  with  three  promising 
plans  in  his  head. 

It  was  Friday,  commonly  a  late  day  for  Mary,  but  you 
could  count  on  nothing  on  such  a  day  as  this.  However,  when 
he  had  dashed  into  the  great  building  and  up  the  two  tall  stair 
ways,  there  sat  the  late  assistant  principal  in  her  little  office, 
hard  at  work  before  a  regular  man's  desk.  She  was  discovered 
deep  in  the  sorting  of  papers,  and  swung  around  at  his  step 
with  a  start  and  a  smile. 

"Good-afternoon!  —  and  excuse  the  mess,  please!  The 
notice  to  move  caught  me  a  little  unawares,  you  see.  —  Don't 
look  so  solemn,  please!" 

Whatever  emotions  she  might  have  wrestled  with  last  night, 
when  her  light  shone  so  bright  over  the  park,  it  was  clear  that 
Mary  Wing  had  put  them  all  down  to  front  the  world  to-day. 
Neither  did  she  seem  embarrassed  by  any  memories  of  recent 
conversations  on  these  topics,  of  hints  dropped  and  too  firmly 
repulsed.  Her  manner,  her  sensitive  fine  face,  were  as  com 
posed  as  ever. 

It  may  be  that  this,  at  the  outset,  was  slightly  upsetting 
to  Charles,  who  was  himself  not  composed  at  all. 

He  scooped  a  pile  of  "The  New  School"  from  a  chair  and 
sat  with  an  elbow  upon  the  writing-leaf  of  her  masculine  desk. 
Dumping  papers  from  pigeonholes,  Mary  calmly  explained 
how  complete  was  her  overthrow.  Senff,  who  was  known  as 
Mysinger's  "personal  representative"  on  the  Board,  had  pre- 

108 


Angela's    Business 


ferred  the  charges,  she  said,  recommending  her  outright  dis 
missal  from  the  schools.  The  train  had  been  carefully  laid;  it 
appeared  that  Mary  had  received  an  official  warning  from  the 
Superintendent  —  an  obliging  man,  elderly  and  weak,  whom 
Mysinger  meant  to  succeed  before  long  —  all  of  two  weeks 
ago.  Beyond  influence  and  politication,  much  weight  was 
attached  to  the  simple  fact  that  Mysinger,  as  Mary's  imme 
diate  associate  and  superior,  felt  this  persistent  antipathy 
toward  her.  All  the  same,  the  Board  had  debated  the  case  a 
full  hour. 

" Dangerous  ideas,"  she  summarized.  "I'm  not  a  suitable 
person  to  have  authority  over  the  education  of  —  young  wo 
men  and  men." 

"What  they  said  about  Socrates,  too  — " 

"Yes,  but  I  don't  want  a  monument  after  I  'm  dead! " 

She  laughed,  without  self-consciousness,  and  said:  "Oh,  if 
I'd  tried,  of  course,  I  could  n't  have  put  a  better  club  into  Mr. 
Mysinger's  hands.  Ideas !  —  I  'm  really  amazed  I  was  n't 
electrocuted  on  the  spot.  Of  course  it  is  n't  as  if  I  were  a  man, 
you  see,  with  a  right  to  have  ideas.  That 's  my  real  fault, 
from  the  beginning  —  at  least  with  Mysinger.  I  'm  a  woman, 
and  so  should  never  have  been  suffered '  to  teach,  nor  to  usurp 
authority  over  the  man,  but  to  be  in  silence.'  Dear  St.  Paul!" 

It  was  rare  to  find  bitterness  in  Mary.  Charles  asked  hastily 
if  there  had  been  much  talk  about  the  building  to-day.  She 
said  that  the  School  had  been  buzzing  with  it. 

"  It's  almost  been  worth  having  it  happen,  to  see  how  many 
friends  I've  got.  And  the  children  are  the  best,  of  course.  All 
afternoon  my  boys  and  girls  have  been  streaming  in  here,  in 
threes  and  fours  —  just  to  say  they're  sorry  I'm  going.  .  .  ." 

A  shadow  fell  on  her  oddly  fragile-looking  face,  and  the 
author  struck  the  writing-leaf  with  a  large  fist. 

109 


Angela's    Business 


"By  George,  you  shan't  go!" 

"By  George,  I've  got  to,"  said  Mary. 

"Well,  by  George,  you'll  come  right  back.  Listen  to  me." 

Leaning  forward  over  her  desk,  he  eagerly  unfolded  his 
leading  plan,  elaborated  by  him  in  the  night  season.  This  plan 
involved  an  immediate  appeal  to  the  State  Board  of  Educa 
tion,  which  body  had  the  power  of  overriding  all  acts  of  local 
school  boards.  Chalmers  Brown,  the  young  Attorney-General 
of  the  State  and  Charles's  good  friend,  was  an  ex-officio  member 
of  this  august  body.  Brown  would  arrange  to  have  a  meet 
ing  called  at  once,  ostensibly  on  other  business,  if  necessary. 
Mary  Wing  would  find  herself  triumphantly  back  in  this  office 
within  two  weeks  from  to-day.  And  as  for  — 

But  at  the  first  mention  of  the  State  Board,  Mary  had  begun 
to  shake  her  head,  and  before  Charles  had  got  his  plan  fairly 
set  out  she  interrupted  him,  rather  (it  seemed  to  him)  as  an 
older  brother  interrupts. 

"No,  I've  thought  that  over  very  carefully.  Mysinger's 
pull  has  me  beaten  there  before  I  begin.  I  'd  only  be  playing 
into  his  hand,  don't  you  see  —  giving  the  State  Board  a  public 
opportunity  to  indorse  and  approve  my  punishment." 

"  But,  great  heavens !  Mysinger  's  not  the  whole  show  here. 
You  overrate — " 

"He  is,  and  he  is  n't.  Some  good  men,  like  Creamer,  are 
against  me  now,  it 's  true.  And  yet,  if  Mysinger  let  either 
Board  know  that  he  wanted  me  back  here,  I'd  come  back  to 
morrow.  He 's  that  much  of  the  show,  Mr.  Garrott." 

Charles  argued  warmly.  He  was  chagrined  at  the  ease  and 
decision  with  which  the  sure  young  woman  brushed  his  argu 
ments  aside.  Nor  did  the  consciousness  that  she  was  probably 
sound  in  her  positions  soothe  his  masculine  sense  of  the  fitness 
of  things  at  all.  With  a  subtle  loss  of  enthusiasm,  he  broached 

no 


Angela's    Business 


his  second  plan ;  and  it  too  was  summarily  thrown  out  of  court. 
That  plan  had  called  for  an  investigation  of  the  "due  cause" 
by  the  City  Council  —  an  intention  attributed  by  the  gen 
erous  "Post"  reporter  to  the  well-known  citizen,  unnamed. 
Finding  his  supporting  shoulder  thus  rejected,  Charles  de 
manded  what  was  her  plan,  then.  And  it  seemed  that  Mary's 
plan  was  merely  to  wait  until  May,  when  the  terms  of  three 
members  of  the  local  Board  expired  (all  of  them  Mysinger 
men),  and  then  to  see  to  it  that  these  places  were  filled  with 
men  friendly  to  her. 

The  plan  seemed  to  the  young  man  so  feeble  and  remote,  so 
uncharacteristic  and  tame,  as  to  indicate  a  certain  indiffer 
ence  in  her.  He  sat  eyeing  her  a  moment  with  intent  specu 
lation,  and  then  said  deliberately :  — 

"That 's  good  enough  for  publication  purposes,  I  suppose. 
But  —  you're  thinking  of  something  very  different,  are  n't 
you?" 

"Am  I  ?  —  what  do  you  suspect  ?"  said  Mary,  continuing 
her  labors  of  paper-sorting. 

"  It 's  occurred  to  me  that  you  have  rather  a  brilliant  re 
venge  up  your  sleeve  all  the  time.  What  '11  you  care  for  little 
pigs  like  Mysinger,  when  you  go  off  as  General  Secretary  of 
the  League?" 

The  self-contained  young  woman  surprised  him  by  throw 
ing  both  arms  above  her  head  and  saying,  passionately:  "If  I 
only  could!  Oh,  oh!  If  I  only  could!" 

Charles's  gaze  became  fixed.  "  But  you  're  going  to,  are  n't 
you?" 

Her  arms  fell  and  she  said,  in  another  voice:  "No,  I  don't 
think  I  'm  going  to  land  it,  you  see!" 

"Not  going  to — !  Why,  I  thought  you  were  practically 
sure!" 

in 


Angela's    Business 


"That's  the  worst  of  it  —  I  was,  for  a  few  wild  weeks.  Now 
I  'm  positive  I  'm  not." 

"  Why!  —  but  what 's  happened  ?  " 

"Oh,"  said  she,  light  and  calm  again,  "merely  reading  be 
tween  the  lines  of  Dr.  Ames's  letters.  I  hear  from  him  all  the 
time  about  the  State  work  —  once  a  week,  at  least.  But  he 's 
never  referred  at  all  to  the  talk  we  had  —  about  my  being 
Secretary  —  from  the  first.  Of  course,  I  Ve  wondered.  And 
then  yesterday  —  no,  day  before  —  I  had  a  letter  asking  if  I 
expected  to  be  in  New  York  any  time  before  fall.  He  said  he  'd 
like  to  talk  with  me  about  my  work  here." 

The  straightforward  sentences  carried  a  painful  conviction. 
Charles's  eyes  fell  from  his  friend's  face.  For  this  crowning 
disappointment  of  hers  he  was  distressed  enough,  indeed;  and 
yet  he  was  perfectly  conscious  that  there  was  a  side  of  him 
which  could  not  lament  at  all.  Publicly  speaking,  he  had  not 
honestly  viewed  the  secretaryship  as  a  "revenge  ":  since  to  get 
Mary  out  of  the  schools,  by  hook  or  crook,  was  the  exact  ob 
ject  in  life  of  her  adversary,  Mysinger,  who  so  earnestly  held 
that  woman's  place  was  the  Home.  And  then,  there  were 
those  more  personal  and  secret  reactions  in  him,  which  had 
somehow  recoiled  from  this  development  of  the  Career  from 
the  start. 

"How  long  have  you  felt  this  way  —  that  you  were  n't  go 
ing  to  get  it?" 

"Oh  —  for  two  months  now,  at  least." 

"Two  months!  Why,  you've  never  said  anything  about  it 
tome!" 

"Well,  I  don't  remember  your  asking  anything  about  it." 

"No,  because  I  supposed  it  was  virtually  settled  — " 

"  Oh,  no,  indeed.  In  fact  —  oh,  'it  was  just  a  mad  dream 
for  me,  of  course !  I  '11  live  and  die  a  Grammar  School  teacher." 

112 


Angela's    Business 


"No!  I  swear  you'll  not!"  And,  seeing  the  way  cleared  of 
all  extra-complications  now,  the  young  man  flung  out  with  un 
wonted  exuberance:  "You  trust  me  I  You'll  come  back  here 
so  quickly  you  '11  not  remember  you  ever  went!" 

But  the  male  protectorship,  he  should  have  known  well, 
scarcely  thrived  in  this  atmosphere.  Mary  tied  a  package  of 
papers,  gave  him  a  look  and  smile,  and  dropped  it  efficiently 
into  the  suitcase  at  her  feet. 

"  Well,  that's  on  the  knees  of  the  gods  as  yet.  Meanwhile 
—  there 's  no  use  crying  over  spilt  milk." 

"My  point  is,  don't  you  see,  this  milk  shan't  stay  spilt! 
I  'm  not  going  to  wait  till  May  to  have  you  back  here." 

It  was  on  the  tip  of  his  tongue  to  confide  to  her  then,  for  her 
comfort,  the  third  plan  he  had  for  her,  a  plan  more  circuitous 
and  elaborate  than  either  of  his  others,  but  yet,  given  time,  his 
personal  favorite  from  the  beginning.  However,  Mary's  little 
laugh  checked  him.  The  laugh  may  have  been  the  best  cover 
she  had  for  feelings  deeply  bruised,  after  all,  perhaps:  but  the 
breath  of  it  chilled  the  young  man's  ardors  effectually. 

"I  'm  afraid  you  must,  though!  This  milk  — " 

"I  decline.  Trust  me,  I  say.   I  intend  to  help  you  here." 

But  her  reply  was  to  put  into  words  of  one  syllable,  at  last, 
what  her  manner  had  been  saying  plainly  from  the  begin 
ning:— 

"My  dear  friend,  you  can't  help  me,  in  this." 

She  added,  quietly  snapping  on  a  light:  "  Don't  worry  your 
head  about  it  any  more,  please.  Whatever  can  be  done,  —  I 
can  and  will  do  it,  you  may  be  sure." 

It  was  odd  how  completely  this  silenced  the  young  man. 
It  was  as  if  she  had  suddenly  blown  up  the  whole  line  of  their 
communication . 

And  it  seemed  to  Charles,  all  at  once,  that  Mary  had  acci- 


Angela's    Business 


dentally  stated  exactly  what  was  the  matter  with  her,  as  a 
woman  and  a  friend.  It  seemed  to  him  suddenly  that  ever 
since  he  had  known  this  girl  he  had  been  going  to  her  and  say 
ing,  "Look  here,  I  '11  help  you  do  such  and  such,"  and  she,  in 
one  way  or  another,  had  always  been  replying,  "Why,  you 
could  n't  help  ME!" 

The  conversation  between  the  two  old  friends  thus  abruptly 
thinned  out.  It  became  almost  desultory  on  his  part,  not  un 
touched  with  dignity.  And  as  they  so  chatted  of  Lee  Grammar 
School  and  its  unfavorable  location,  he,  the  authority,  was 
eyeing  Mary  Wing  askance,  unmistakably  reacting.  .  .  .  Was 
hardness,  then,  the  necessary  corollary  of  "independence"? 
Was  it  true,  exactly  as  Old  Tories  said,  that  a  woman  could 
not  grapple  long  with  actuality  without  rubbing  away  that 
natural  sweetness  and  charm  of  hers  which,  it  might  be,  the 
grim  world  needed  more  than  duplicate  Careers?  Certainly 
there  was  no  charm  for  him  in  this  slip  of  a  girl's  self-assertion: 
"I  'm  a  better  man  than  you,  don't  you  know  it?"  Splendid, 
indeed,  was  her  Spartan  calm  in  a  defeat  serious  in  every  way, 
and  with  the  peculiar  sting  conferred  by  Miss  Trevenna's 
fame.  Why  was  it  that  he  would  have  warmed  to  her  so  in 
finitely  more,  have  felt  quite  a  new  depth  of  affection  for  her, 
if,  rather,  she  had  turned  to  him  helpless  and  wildly  weeping, 
"Help  me!  Help  me,  friend,  or  I  perish!" 

"And  at  least  you'll  get  out  much  earlier  in  the  afternoons," 
he  was  observing  courteously.  .  .  . 

But  his  secret  thought  continued  to  engross  him,  this  fan 
tastic  thought  of  Mary  weeping.  Now  he  remembered  Miss 
Angela's  girlish  outburst  last  night,  after  the  bridge-party; 
and  he  saw  that  there  was  something  subtly  fitting,  engaging 
on  the  whole,  in  a  woman's  weeping  over  her  troubles.  But 
Mary,  of  course,  could  not  weep ;  she  simply  did  n't  have  the 

114 


Angela's    Business 


plant,  as  you  might  put  it.  No  —  you  could  picture  Mary 
asking  you  to  sit  on  the  sofa  and  look  at  her  ring,  more  easily 
than  weeping. 

And  then,  becoming  aware  of  a  teacher  hovering  about  in 
the  corridor  near  the  door,  —  a  fellow  named  Hartwell  it  was, 
who  had  long  seemed  rather  attentive  to  Mary,  —  Charles 
Garrott  rose  to  go,  a  mere  polite  caller. 

"Is  n't  it  time  you  were  knocking  off?" 

"I  think  I  'd  better  clear  up  a  little  more  of  this,  now  that 
I  'm  at  it." 

"I  wonder  if  I  could  n't  help  you  with  some  of  that?" 

"  Oh,  no,  thank  you."  (Why,  of  course  he  could  n't  help  HER, 
even  to  tear  up  old  papers.)  "  Nobody  could  understand  it  but 
me.  But  I  've  —  appreciated  your  visit." 

He  wished  her  a  good-afternoon.  In  a  stately  silence,  he 
traversed  the  spacious  corridor,  stalked  down  the  handsome 
stairways.  For  the  moment,  he  could  not  get  his  thought  back 
to  the  concrete;  the  sting  of  defeat  possessed  him,  the  bitter 
ness  that  is  the  portion  of  the  friend  of  women.  And  then,  in 
this  mood,  shaking  the  dust  of  the  High  School  from  his  feet, 
he  encountered,  of  all  inopportune  people  under  the  sun,  Miss 
Flora  Trevenna. 

He  came  upon  the  unhappy  girl  standing  in  a  corner  of  the 
outer  vestibule,  beyond  the  great  bronze  doors;  she  stood 
alone,  looking  off  down  the  twilight  street.  Her  head  turned  at 
the  sound  of  Charles's  feet;  recognition  came  hesitatingly  into 
her  glance,  and  she  bowed,  smiling  remotely  in  the  absent  or 
reserved  way  which  seemed  to  be  characteristic  of  her.  It  was 
clearly  on  a  second  thought  that  she  spoke  suddenly,  in  her 
fluty  voice:  — 

"Oh!  —  could  you  tell  me  whether  Miss  Wing  is  still  in  the 
building?  " 

"5 


Angela's    Business 


Pausing,  his  hat  stiffly  raised,  the  young  man  said  that  Miss 
Wing  was.  "  You'll  find  her  in  her  office  —  on  the  third  floor 
at  the  front,  you  know." 

"  Thank  you." 

But,  as  he  bowed  and  passed  on,  the  Badwoman  made  no 
move  to  enter  and  ascend.  She  stood  as  he  had  found  her, 
waiting,  aside:  a  solitary  and  withdrawn  figure,  for  the  mo 
ment  to  the  perceiving  eye  not  untouched  with  pathos. 

But  Charles,  proceeding,  could  see  in  this  figure  only  the 
witting  cause  of  all  the  trouble.  He  had  spoken  kindly  enough 
to  Miss  Trevenna:  now  suddenly  all  his  accumulated  and  com 
plex  resentment  seemed  to  gather  and  pour  out.  Could  n't  the 
woman  leave  Mary  alone,  even  on  this  day?  But  no  —  of 
course  she  could  n't !  She  who  had  claimed  her  Happiness  over 
her  mother's  heart  would  see  nothing  amiss  in  seeking  to 
scramble  back  to  good  repute  by  the  same  general  route.  It 
was  her  Higher  Law  to  throw  her  blight  over  all  who  might 
assist  her:  over  her  friend,  Mary  Wing,  no  more  than  over 
her  own  young  sisters,  from  whom  (Judge  Blenso  said)  people 
were  already  silently  dropping  away,  now  that  it  was  known 
that  the  "free"  Miss  Flora  came  sometimes  to  the  house. 

Free! .  .  .  Was  not  here,  indeed,  that  underside  of  "Free 
dom,"  that  true  reverse  of  Taking  My  Happiness,  which  the 
New  speakers  never  mentioned?  This  girl  conceived  free 
dom  just  as  a  Developed  Ego  would  conceive  it,  as  an  order  of 
things  in  which  she  should  be  "free,"  while  everyone  else,  go 
ing  on  as  usual,  sacrificed  and  denied  to  uphold  her  comfort 
and  support  her  illimitable  selfishness.  In  her  goings  out  and 
comings  in,  she  would  take  no  thought  but  for  her  Self.  And 
there  she  stood,  no  leader  of  a  new  dawn,  but  a  true  enemy 
of  the  common  good:  a  female  Anti-Social,  a  lawless  Egoette, 
who  maintained  that  the  world  was  ordered  and  the  sun  set  in 

116 


Angela's    Business 


the  heavens,  that  she  only  might  indulge  herself  where  her 
whim  led.  .  .  . 

On  the  corner  the  young  man  halted,  shook  himself  slightly, 
and  glanced  up  and  down.  A  brief  anxiousness  crossed  his 
face,  followed  by  an  air  of  irresolution. 

This  street,  Albemarle,  was  three  blocks  from  Washington, 
and  certainly  not  a  street  that  a  pleasure-walker,  like  Miss 
Angela,  would  be  likely  to  pick  out.  Charles's  legs  seemed 
to  thirst  for  exercise.  But  it  was  clear  to  him  that  it  would 
not  do  to  run  any  superfluous  risks;  especially  just  now,  when 
it  was  all  so  fresh  and  new.  Therefore,  after  a  moment  of 
struggle,  the  authority  once  more  set  his  face  ingloriously 
toward  the  street-cars. 

And  as  he  went  he  began  to  think  again,  more  intently  than 
he  had  thought  in  all  the  thoughtful  day.  He  had  taken  that 
challenge  of  Mary's  full  in  the  face,  as  it  were.  She  had  said, 
as  if  in  final  summary  of  their  relations,  that  he  was  incapa 
ble  of  helping  her.  Very  well;  he  had  a  clear  field  now  to  show 
her,  once  and  for  all,  whether  or  not  that  was  true. 

That  third  plan  of  his  (of  which  she  should  hear  no  inkling 
now  till  the  thing  was  done)  was  nothing  less  than  to  roll  up 
such  a  body  of  Public  Opinion  as  would  overwhelm  the  School 
Board — a  body  somewhat  sensitive  to  Opinion — forcing  it 
to  reverse  itself.  This  could  not  be  done  in  a  day,  of  course. 
To  gather  momentum  enough  to  rouse  the  local  papers  would 
mean  to  start  far  back.  So  Charles's  mind  had  fastened  at 
once  on  his  old  idea  of  a  thoroughgoing  eulogistic  "write-up" 
of  Mary,  to  begin  with,  in  some  national  magazine  of  the  high 
est  standing.  Only  now  his  soaring  ambition  was  to  "plant" 
three  such  write-ups  at  least  —  cunningly  differentiated  in 
matter  and  manner,  and  signed  with  different  names.  Nor 
did  this  seem  by  any  means  a  dream.  From  the  periodicals 

117 


Angela's    Business 


themselves,  he  saw  that  there  was  a  demand  for  just  such 
"stuff"  nowadays,  just  such  little  smartly- written  sketches 
of  " people  who  were  doing  things."  Mary  did  things,  without 
a  doubt.  And  once  he  got  the  write-ups  in  print,  —  even  two 
write-ups,  or  one,  —  he  had  a  powerful  bludgeon  to  swing  at 
the  local  editors.  "  Look  here,"  he  would  say  to  them,  "  why 
do  we  have  to  go  away  from  home  to  learn  the  news?  Are 
you  fellows  going  to  sit  still  and  say  nothing  while  some  live 
city  gets  this  woman  for  Superintendent  of  Schools?  Why 
don't  you  .  .  ." 

The  imaginary  exhortation  ended  there.  Round  the  corner 
ahead  of  Charles  a  man  came  swinging  just  then,  rapidly 
drawing  near.  And  all  small  plottings  were  catapulted  from 
the  mind  of  Mary's  friend  as  he  looked  into  the  face  of  Mr. 
Mysinger. 

The  principal  of  the  High  School  approached  with  a  native 
swagger,  on  much  "shined"  shoes.  He  was  what  is  called  a 
careful  dresser;  a  heavily  built  man,  fan-  and  not  ill-looking. 
Ten  steps  away,  his  eye  fell  on  Charles,  and,  while  his  lips  as 
sumed  a  gracious  smile,  the  eye  in  question  seemed  to  lighten 
with  a  flash  of  triumph.  And  the  sight  of  Miss  Trevenna  was 
nothing  to  that  sight.  All  the  blood  in  the  young  man's  body 
seemed  suddenly  to  be  pounding  in  his  head. 

"Well,  Garrott!  How  goes  it  to-day?" 

It  had  not  occurred  to  him  to  "cut"  Mysinger,  but  so  the 
matter  seemed  to  be  written  in  the  stars.  In  silence,  the  pass 
ing  author  looked  the  principal  through  and  through.  And 
his  head  grew  hotter,  and  the  pit  of  his  stomach  icier,  as  he 
saw  Mysinger's  smile  become  fixed,  saw  it  waver  doubtfully 
and  die,  saw  open  hostility  slide  into  the  hated  eye.  So  Mary 
Whig's  conqueror  and  her  unhelpful  friend  went  by  at  half  a 
foot. 

118 


Angela's    Business 


"By  George!  I  '11  beat  up  that  rascal  yet  for  this!" 

The  unliterary  words  were  ejected,  it  seemed,  by  a  demon 
within.  But  no  sooner  had  they  fallen  on  the  ear  of  Charles 
than  all  the  rest  of  him  leapt  upon  and  seized  them,  as  one 
recognizing  a  long-felt  want,  an  unconquerable  need.  And 
thus  his  writer's  imagination  was  off  upon  yet  another  plan, 
the  last  and  the  best. 

Yes,  that  was  what  he  wanted,  needed  now,  more  than 
anything  else.  He  would  humiliate  this  swaggering  Teuton 
past  all  endurance ;  he  would  go  and  kick  him  till  his  weary 
legs  refused  the  office:  he  would  batter  him  till  his  own  wife 
passed  him  by  for  a  stranger.  Lord,  what  a  plan !  And  then, 
the  moment  he  could  leave  the  hospital,  Mysinger  would  crawl 
around  to  Olive  Street,  hat  in  hand.  "Miss  Wing,  I'm  peti 
tioning  the  Board  to  invite  you  back  to  the  High  School  at 
once,"  he  would  say.  "I  humbly  beg  you  to  come,  and  try  to 
forgive  me  for  my  contemptible  conduct  in  the  past.  I  don't 
know  why  I  Ve  always  acted  like  such  a  dirty  dog"  (Mysinger 
would  say).  "It's  just  my  low,  base  nature,  I  guess."  And 
Man*,  starting  up  hi  surprise  (but,  perhaps,  already  half- 
suspecting  the  truth),  would  say:  ''But  this  is  astounding,  Mr. 
Mysinger!  How  come  you  here,  saying  these  things  to  me?" 
And  that  insolent  fellow,  whiter  than  death,  would  mumble 
through  swollen  lips,  "It 's  Mr.  Garrott's  orders,  miss." 

Then  Mary  would,  perhaps,  understand  a  little  better 
whether  or  not  a  man  could  help  her.  .  .  . 

The  author  turned  suddenly  on  the  darkling  street,  moved 
by  an  instinct  to  look  after  his  retiring  enemy.  By  an  odd  co 
incidence,  Principal  Mysinger  had  been  moved  by  an  instinct 
to  turn  and  look  after  him,  Charles.  Both  men  turned  hastily 
round  again. 

So  Charles,  halting  on  the  corner  for  his  car,  shook  himself 

119 


Angela's    Business 


once  again,  reined  in  his  imagination,  and  remembered  that 
he  was  a  modern  and  civilized  being.  For  the  moment,  the 
reminder  seemed  to  accomplish  little.  The  blood  continued 
to  pound  in  the  sedentary  temples,  redly.  Charles  saw  that 
the  idea  of  primitive  male  combat,  over  a  manly  woman's 
Career,  was  unmodern  and  grotesque.  But  the  idea  lingered 
all  the  same. 

He  spent  the  evening  upon  the  first  of  his  write-ups, 
scenarios  shut  fast  in  the  drawer.  This  piece  concerned 
Mary  Wing  the  Educator,  and  the  intention  was  to  have 
Mary's  friend,  Hartwell,  read,  sign,  and  father  it.  Every  pre 
caution  must  be  taken,  of  course,  to  give  the  whole  thing  a 
spontaneous  air,  avoiding  the  appearance  of  a  concerted 
boom.  By  midnight,  the  first  draft  of  the  Educator  write-up 
was  finished,  and,  wearied,  the  young  man  picked  up  the 
"  Post,"  where  he  had  had  eyes  but  for  one  story  that  morning. 

Here  his  wandering  glance  fell  presently  upon  this:  — 

Miss  Angela  Flower  entertained  at  bridge  last  evening  at  the 
residence  of  her  parents,  Dr.  and  Mrs.  Oscar  P.  Flower.  Miss 
Flower's  guests  included  a  limited  number  of  the  younger  set. 

At  this  description  of  himself  and  Fanny,  Charles  smiled, 
for  almost  the  first  time  that  day.  But  as  he  continued  to 
gaze  at  that  small  hopeful  item,  his  mirth  faded,  and  soon  he 
began  to  stroke  the  bridge  of  his  nose,  his  look  distinctly 
worried. 


IN  the  little  house  of  the  Flowers,  Miss  Angela  sat  forlorn 
at  her  favorite  post.  She  entertained  the  younger  set  no 
more.  It  was  the  middle  of  December,  and  a  cold  rain 
poured.  With  a  ragged  bit  of  chamois,  the  old-fashioned  girl 
polished  her  already  comely  nails.  The  window-curtain, 
shrunken  and  twisted  with  more  than  one  washing,  was  hooked 
back  on  a  convenient  nail ;  now  and  then  Angela  picked  up  her 
shabby  opera-glasses  and  peeped  over  into  the  fan-shaped 
sliver  of  Washington  Street.  But  few  pedestrians  passed  over 
there  to-day,  and  the  motor-cars  of  the  Blessed  slid  by  in 
curtains  of  waterproof. 

It  was  the  slack  hour  again,  it  seemed,  leaving  home-makers 
with  idle  hands.  Even  that  subtle  business  to  which  but  one 
modern  authority  gave  a  scientific  rating,  the  Business  of 
Supplying  Beauty  and  Supplying  Charm,  was  here  at  a  com 
plete  standstill.  The  men  of  Angela's  family,  who  must  be  re 
freshed  and  made  joyful  for  their  battlings  in  the  world  with 
out,  were  at  this  hour  out,  battling.  Mrs.  Flower  was  lying 
down  in  her  room,  doing  her  own  refreshing.  As  for  the  cook 
downstairs,  she  had  her  orders,  and  recked  not  of  Charm. 
Angela,  thus,  had  her  strictly  earned  leisure;  and,  on  the  other 
hand,  she  had  not  those  intenser  occupations  for  leisure,  re 
forms,  fights,  and  attacks  on  Morals,  such  as  engrossed  the 
mind  of  her  advanced  Cousin  Mary.  As  a  womanly  woman, 
she  naturally  thought  a  great  deal  about  people,  her  friends, 
and  as  an  unassisted  stranger  in  the  city,  she  really  had  very 
few  friends  to  think  about.  Hence,  it  was  the  most  natural 

121 


Angela's    Business 


thing  imaginable  if  she  was  now  wondering,  for  the  thou 
sandth  time,  what  in  the  world  had  become  of  Mr.  Gar- 
rott. 

Angela  could  not  understand  about  Mr.  Garrott.  He 
simply  never  seemed  to  walk  any  more.  That  she  had  hurt  his 
feelings  very  badly  that  night  after  the  bridge-party  she  had 
understood,  from  the  start.  But  perhaps  she  had  never  meant 
to  hurt  them  so  badly  as  this;  and  that  Mr.  Garrott  could 
vanish  utterly  from  Washington  Street  had,  indeed,  not  en 
tered  her  thoughts.  This,  however,  was  precisely  what  Mr. 
Garrott  had  done,  from  the  very  day  following  the  misun 
derstanding. 

For  so,  in  the  lapse  of  days,  had  Angela  generously  come  to 
think  of  the  occurrence  on  the  sofa.  She  and  Mr.  Garrott  had 
had  a  terrible  misunderstanding. 

It  was  half-past  four  o'clock;  the  dreary  day  was  shutting 
in.  Angela  looked  down  into  her  own  back  yard,  which  was 
small,  mean-looking,  not  devoid  of  tin  cans,  and  now  running 
with  dirty  water.  A  dingy  old  shed  or  outhouse,  where  some 
previous  tenant  had  thriftily  stabled  a  horse,  contributed  not 
a  little  to  the  wintry  desolateness  of  the  scene.  Beneath  the 
window  the  cook,  Luemma,  emerged,  a  ragged  print-skirt 
turned  over  her  head,  and  emptied  ashes  into  a  broken  wooden 
barrel.  Angela  yawned,  and  picked  up  a  hand-glass. 

The  girl's  more  kindly  view  of  Mr.  Garrott's  demeanor  had 
been,  of  course,  a  gradual  growth.  Her  mortification  and  rage 
against  the  young  tribute-payer  had  lasted  two  days,  at 
least,  and  chancing  to  see  her  poor  Cousin  Mary  at  this  time, 
—  who  was  now  being  talked  about  from  one  end  of  the  town 
to  the  other,  —  she  had  taken  occasion  to  speak  most  disparag 
ingly  of  Mr.  Garrott,  though,  of  course,,  in  an  indirect  manner. 
She  had  described  him  as  a  person  of  tl  e  lowest  ideals.  At  this 

122 


ANGELA  PEEPED  OVER  INTO  WASHINGTON  STREET 


Angela's    Business 


Cousin  Mary  had  protested,  quite  indignantly;  and,  though 
Angela  well  knew  there  were  phases  of  Mr.  Garrott  which  her 
mannish  cousin  was  not  likely  ever  to  see,  that  stout  cham 
pionship  had  doubtless  done  much  to  check  her  first  resent 
ment  and  make  her  see  things  in  a  truer  light.  Moreover,  she 
was  naturally  a  sweet-tempered  creature,  and  the  long  days 
following,  and  the  long  empty  walks,  may  have  been  just  the 
things  needed  to  appeal  most  subtly  to  her  higher  nature. 
After  all,  Mr.  Garrott  had  been  remarkably  nice  to  her,  pay 
ing  her  every  attention  from  the  beginning.  And  even  if  he 
had  been  carried  away,  for  once  —  what  did  that  show  .  .  . 

A  ring  at  the  doorbell  made  Angela  jump  a  little.  While  the 
Flowers  had  a  small  house,  they  had  a  loud  bell.  Though  its 
clanging  nowadays  rarely  meant  anything  exciting,  the  diver 
sion,  on  the  whole,  was  not  unwelcome.  The  young  house 
keeper  rose,  went  out  into  the  hall,  and  listened  down  over  the 
banisters. 

Below,  there  was  nothing  to  listen  to.  Receiving  only 
twelve  dollars  a  month,  Luemma  seemed  to  think  she  must 
take  out  the  residue  of  her  wages  in  inefficience  and  impu 
dence,  and  did;  sometimes  she  answered  the  bell,  sometimes 
she  "had  her  hands  in  the  lightbread,"  etc.  The  present 
seemed  to  be  one  of  the  latter  times.  The  bell  pealed  again; 
a  voice  from  the  front  called,  "Angela!  —  are  you  dressed?" 
—  and  Angela,  replying  to  her  mother,  went  down  to  the  door 
herself,  smoothing  her  hair  and  trimming  her  waist  as  she 
went. 

The  caller  proved  to  be  none  other  than  her  disgraced 
cousin,  Mary  Wing. 

"  Well,  Angela,  how  are  you?  "  said  she,  entering  confidently, 
and  kissed  Angela's  cheek.  "  I  hope  I  did  n't  break  into  your 
nap,  or  anything  unforgivable  like  that?" 

123 


Angela's    Business 


"  Oh,  no,  indeed,  Cousin  Mary.  How  d'  you  do?  I  was  n't 
asleep." 

Cousin  Mary  was  enveloped  from  neck  to  heels  in  a  becom 
ing  gray  raincoat.  Beneath  that  were  seen  glimpses  of  a  cos 
tume  rather  elaborate  for  bad  weather  and  a  workaday  world. 
Nor  did  Cousin  Mary's  manner  seem  in  the  least  crushed  or 
subdued,  as  morals  demanded  that  the  manner  of  a  disgraced 
person  should  be. 

All  the  same,  Angela  greeted  her  cordially  enough,  with 
only  a  faint  conscientious  stiffness  traceable  to  her  mother. 
For  one  thing,  she  was  really  sorry  for  Mary  now;  right  or 
wrong,  she  genuinely  wished  they  had  n't  expelled  her  from 
the  High  School,  and  sent  her  off  to  a  Grammar  School,  in  a 
low  quarter  of  the  city.  And  then  besides  that,  whatever 
Cousin  Mary's  strange  ideas  and  behavior,  the  fact  remained 
that  she  happened  still  to  be  one  of  her,  Angela's,  particular 
little  coterie  —  that  small  group  of  friends  and  relatives  with 
whom  she  herself  seemed  to  be  sadly  out  of  touch  just  now. 

Mary  entered  with  the  air  of  being  in  a  hurry.  In  the 
car-shaped  parlor  she  unbuttoned  her  coat,  nevertheless,  the 
Latrobe  heater  being,  like  the  doorbell,  small  but  powerful. 
Angela,  seated  on  the  famous  sofa,  said:  — 

" Cousin  Mary,  you're  all  dressed  up!  I  believe  you're 
going  to  a  party!" 

Mary  glanced  down  at  herself  with  indifference. 

"No,"  said  she,  "but  I  Ve  been  to  a  little  sort  of  one,  a 
luncheon.  And  we  did  n't  leave  the  hotel  till  half  an  hour  ago, 
either—" 

"Oh,  a  luncheon!   They're  fun,  I  think.   Where  was  it?" 

"At  the  Arlington  —  very  fine  and  beautiful,  but  it  took 
hours!  That's  why  I'm  so  late  getting  around  here.  I've 
wanted  specially  to  see  you  for  several  days,  Angela,  but  I 

124 


Angela's    Business 


have  n't  seemed  to  find  a  minute,  and  this  was  my  last  chance. 
I  wondered  if  you  had  any  engagement  for  to-morrow  after 
noon?" 

"No,  indeed,  Cousin  Mary,  I  have  n't  any  engagement." 

"Then  I  want  you  to  come  with  me  to  a  lecture,"  said 
Cousin  Mary,  "at  four  o'clock." 

The  young  girl's  face,  which  had  become  brightly  expectant 
at  the  mention  of  engagements,  fell  perceptibly.  She  covered 
her  disappointment  with  a  little  laugh. 

"  Well,  —  thank  you,  very  much,  Cousin  Mary,  —  but  you 
know  I  don't  appreciate  lectures  very  much.  I  'm  not  clever 
enough — " 

"But  this  is  n't  an  ordinary  lecture.  In  fact,  I  should  n't 
have  used  that  word  at  all.  It 's  a  talk,  a  personal  talk  to 
women  by  a  woman,  and  a  wonderful  one  —  Dr.  Jane  Rainey. 
You  may  have  heard  of  her?" 

"Well,  I'm  not  sure.  What  is  she  going  to  talk  about?" 
asked  Angela  politely. 

"The  subject  that  means  most  to  every  woman,  no  matter 
what  she  thinks  or  says!  And  Dr.  Rainey,  I  do  believe,  knows 
more  about  it  than  anybody  else  living.  Jane  Clemm  she  was 
—  but  that  was  years  ago,  before  you  could  remember.  I  got 
her  to  come  here  to  speak,  myself,  —  and  expect  to  lose  some 
money  on  the  transaction,  too,  —  heigho!  But  I  don't  mind 
really,  it 's  such  a  privilege  to  have  the  whole  subject  lit  up, 
from  the  modern  point  of  view,  by  a  speaker  like  this.  Jane 
Rainey 's  a  practicing  physician,  a  fine  human  being,  the 
mother  of  four  children  herself,  and  she  — " 

"But  what  is  her  subject,  Cousin  Mary?" 

"That 's  it!  —  marriage  and  motherhood." 

Angela  stared  at  her  cousin,  and  then  looked  rather 
shocked.  Next,  faint  color  appeared  in  her  smooth  cheeks. 

125 


Angela's    Business 


It  really  seemed  that  Mary  had  learned  nothing,  from  the 
painful  lesson  she  had  just  received.  Why  did  she  have  this 
persistent  interest  in  the  unpleasant  side  of  life? 

She  said  more  decisively  than  was  her  wont:  "No,  Cousin 
Mary,  I  really  don't  think  I  'd  care  to  go  —  thank  you." 

Mary  Wing,  checked  in  her  forensic  by  Angela's  expression, 
looked  surprised,  though,  perhaps,  not  taken  aback,  and 
certainly  not  rebuked. 

"Now,  why  not?  I  honestly  hoped  the  subject  would  have 
a  special  interest  for  you.  You  — " 

"Forme!  — Oh,  no!  I—" 

"  My  dear,  you  know  you  told  me  once  what  your  ambition 
was  —  to  be  a  good  wife  some  day,  when  the  right  man  came 
for  you.  And  that 's  the  ambition  of  every  normal  woman,  I 
believe,  —  or  one  of  them,  —  no  matter  what  else  she  may 
have  in  her  head!  Well,  you  see,  that's  exactly  what  this 
brilliant  student  —  and  woman  —  wants  to  advise  us  about 

—  how  to  fulfill  this  ambition;  how  to  prepare  ourselves  to 
be  good  wives  and  — " 

"But  I  don't  think  of  it  that  way  at  all,  Cousin  Mary.  I 
hope,"  said  Angela,  pink-cheeked,  but  once  more  standing 
firm  for  propriety  against  all  the  astonishing  Newness  — 
"  I  hope  I  '11  know  how  to  be  a  good  wife  —  to  the  man  I  love 

—  without  going  to  any  lectures  — " 

"Do  you  think  anybody  on  earth  knows  as  much  as  that, 
just  by  intuition?  It  seems  to  me  ...  But  perhaps  your 
feeling  is  —  you  don't  like  the  idea  of  a  public  talk  on  the 
subject?" 

"I  don't,  Cousin  Mary  —  frankly.  I  know  I  seem  to  you 
dreadfully  behind  the  times  —  and  all.  But  that's  the  way 
I  was  brought  up  to  feel,  and  it 's  the  way  I  do  feel.  I'm 
not  advanced  at  all,  I  thought  you  knew," 

126 


Angela's    Business 


There  was  a  silence  in  the  dingy  little  parlor,  during  which 
the  pouring  rain  became  audible. 

"Of  course  I  don't  want  to  press  you  against  your  will, 
Angela,"  said  Mary  slowly.  "You  know  that?  But  —  I  can't 
get  away  from  feeling  that  being  a  good  wife —  and  mother — 
in  this  awfully  upset,  transitional  age,  when  men's  ideals  are 
changing  step  for  step  with  women's  —  and  perhaps  a  little 
in  advance  of  them,  who  knows?  —  I  believe  it's  the  most 
complicated  and  difficult  vocation  in  the  world.  Compared 
with  it,  any  ordinary  man's  profession  —  like  engineering,  for 
instance  —  looks  to  me  like  simplicity  itself.  And,  Angela,  I 
can't  believe  that  every  woman  is  born  with  all  this  under 
standing,  all  this  difficult  expert  knowledge  in  her  head,  any 
more  than  I  believe  that  every  man  is  born  knowing  by  intui 
tion  how  to  be  a  good  engineer.  Of  course  we  'd  think  it  quite 
strange  —  should  n't  we?  —  if  Donald,  as  a  boy  wanting  to 
be  an  engineer,  had  thought  he  must  n't  read  any  books  that 
mentioned  engineering,  and  must  stop  his  ears  if  — " 

Angela,  feeling  almost  ready  to  stop  her  ears  herself,  in 
terrupted  with  some  warmth:  — 

"Cousin  Mary,  we  simply  don't  understand  each  other!  I 
don't  think  of  —  of  romance  —  and  marriage  —  as  anything 
in  the  least  like  engineering  —  not  in  the  least !  I  don't  think 
of  them  as  subjects  for  lectures  by  experts!  And  I  was 
brought  up  to  feel  there  were  some  things  not  very  —  suit 
able  to  talk  about.  I  was  brought  up  not  to  think  about 
them  at  all." 

"Of  course,  my  dear!  —  I  understand.  But  every  woman 
thinks  about  marriage  —  does  n't  she?  She  can't  help  it. 
Take  me,"  said  Mary,  good-humoredly  —  "a  confirmed  old 
maid  school-teacher  who 's  just  scandalized  half  the  city,  and 
been  publicly  dismissed  from  her  job.  I  have  n't  the  slightest 

127 


Angela's    Business 


idea  of  marrying,  ever,  and  yet  I  think  about  it  often,  and 
would  like  to  feel—" 

"You  do?  Well,  I  am  different.  I  don't  think  about 
it.'' 

"You  don't  think  about  marriage?" 

"I  never  think  of  it  at  all,"  said  Angela. 

That  settled  Cousin  Mary.  After  a  brief  pause  she  said,  in 
the  nicest  way:  "Well,  then,  forgive  me,  Angela,  and  forget 
everything  I  've  said." 

Angela  forgave  her  readily  enough.  Shut  your  eyes  to  the 
horrid,  unwomanly  streak  in  her,  and  Mary  Wing  was  really 
a  very  pleasant  person.  She  had  always  said  that,  to  her 
mother  and  others.  So  talk  flowed  easily  into  other  channels, 
and  the  air  of  cousinly  amity  was  soon  restored.  But  just 
when  that  was  accomplished,  Mary  rose  unexpectedly  to  go, 
and  Angela  found  herself  left  with  several  topics  not  yet  men 
tioned  at  all. 

"Oh,  don't  go  yet!"  said  she.  "I  want  to  — " 

"  I  must!  I  really  had  no  time  at  all  to-day,  but  came  any 
way,  whether  or  no.  How  pretty  you  look,  Angela,"  said 
Mary,  and  kissed  the  now  unblushing  cheek  again. 

"I  wish  the  lunch-party  hadn't  kept  you  so  long!  I  have 
n't—" 

"I  do,  too!  A  whole  good  afternoon!  And  the  worst  of  it 
was,"  said  Mary,  eyeing  her  with  a  sort  of  speculative  arch 
ness,  "I  stayed  after  everybody  was  gone  just  to  talk  to 
Charles  Garrott,  whom  you  dislike  so  much !  Still,"  she  added, 
with  a  fading  of  archness,  "I  had  something  to  tell  him  for 
his  own  good,  at  least." 

Cousin  Mary's  changes  of  expression  were  lost  upon  Angela. 
"Mr.  Garrott!  Was  he  at  the  lunch  party?" 

"He  gave  it  —  did  n't  I  say?  It  was  just  a  little  bon  voyage 

128 


Angela's    Business 


party  for  Donald  —  and  Helen  Carson!  Donald 's  leaving  to 
morrow  for  Wyoming,  you  know,  to  be  gone  a  month  — " 

"No  —  you  had  n't  told  me.  .  .  .  Who  else  was  at  the 
lunch,  Cousin  Mary?" 

"Oh,  just  those  I  Ve  mentioned,  and  Fanny  for  chaperon, 
and  Talbott  Maxon." 

Angela,  naturally,  felt  more  lonely  and  out  of  things  than 
ever.  In  fact,  she  felt  blankly  depressed.  Mr.  Garrott's  lunch 
eon  had  included  exactly  her  coterie,  only  she  herself  being 
omitted. 

"  Why  do  you  say  I  dislike  Mr.  Garrott,  Cousin  Mary?  Of 
course  I  like  him  very  much.  You  know  I  told  you  long  ago 
he  was  much  the  most  attractive  man  I  Ve  met  here." 

"  Well,  but  I  thought  you  must  have  changed  your  opinion, 
when  you  told  me  the  other  day  that  his  ideals  were  so  low." 

"  Why,  of  course  I  did  n't  mean  it,  Cousin  Mary!  I  thought 
you  knew  I  was  angry  when  I  spoke." 

The  two  cousins  regarded  each  other,  in  the  dark  little  hall 
by  the  hatstand.  Angela  felt  her  position  to  be  annoying. 
But  she  explained  with  that  complete  lack  of  embarrassment 
characteristic  only  of  women  conscious  of  rectitude:  — 

"  I  can't  tell  you  all  about  it,  even  now.  But  what  happened 
was  that  Mr.  Garrott  and  I  had  a  terrible  misunderstanding, 
and  at  first  I  put  all  the  blame  on  him,  and  was  awfully  mad 
with  him,  I  admit.  But  since  then,  the  more  I've  thought  of 
it,  the  more  I  Ve  seen  that  I  was  very  unjust  to  him  —  in  what 
I  thought  and  said,  too.  He  really  has  much  more  cause  to  be 
mad  with  me  —  now  —  than  I  have  with  him." 

"Well,  I'm  glad  to  hear  it.  Don't  quarrel  —  that's  my 
motto,"  said  the  stormy  Miss  Wing.  "And  Mr.  Garrott  thinks 
you  are  charming!  —  I  know,  for  he  told  me  so.  Well  — " 

"Yes  —  that's  what  has  changed  my  feeling  about  it  all, 

129 


Angela's    Business 


you  see.  Cousin  Mary  —  when  you  see  him  again,  you  might 
just  say — " 

"My  dear,  I  never  see  Mr.  Garrott!"  said  Mary,  rather 
hastily. 

"Why,  you've  just  seen  him!" 

"The  first  time  for  a  week,  and  probably  the  last  time  for  a 
month.  He 's  going  down  to  his  mother's  in  the  country  on 
Saturday,  to  stay  over  Christmas  and  New  Year's.  Angela,  I 
must  run!" 

Left  alone,  Angela  remained  standing  in  the  hall  for  a 
moment,  gazing  into  space,  of  which  the  hall  really  afforded 
little.  Her  despondency  now  had  a  certain  edge;  it  did  seem 
hard  that,  while  her  friends  and  relatives  —  and  Cousin 
Mary,  of  all  people  —  were  going  to  jolly  lunches  of  the 
younger  set,  her  invitations  should  be  only  to  New- Woman 
lectures.  And  still,  the  girl's  feeling  had  no  bitterness,  even  now. 
Of  course  she  understood  that  she  would  have  been  at  Mr.  Gar- 
rott's  luncheon,  too,  but  for  the  misunderstanding.  .  .  . 

As  she  went  upstairs,  her  mother  called  out  to  her,  and 
Angela  pursued  her  way  to  the  front  bedroom,  as  she  had 
meant  to  do  anyway.  Here,  her  mother  was  discovered  prone 
upon  a  pillowless  lounge,  dangerously  facing  a  gaslight  and 
reading  a  magazine  which  had  no  covers.  Having  laid  the 
magazine,  broken  open,  on  her  lap,  Mrs.  Flower  listened  at 
tentively  to  her  daughter's  report  of  Mary's  call,  and  at  the 
end  said:  — 

"I  must  say  I  think  it's  very  kind  of  Mr.  Garrott  to  stand 
by  her  in  that  way.  Men  secretly  can  never  admire  that  sort 
of  woman,  whatever  their  theories  may  be.  And  that's  just  it 
—  that  explains  Mary's  whole  lurid  course.  If  she  had  ever 
had  a  ray  of  attention,  of  course  she  would  never  have 
dreamed  of  these  wild  goings  on." 

130 


Angela's    Business 


Angela's  mother  was  still  a  pretty  woman,  and  long  habit, 
it  seemed,  had  impressed  her  voice  with  a  permanent  plain- 
tiveness.  She  had  kicked  off  her  slippers  for  comfort;  her  high 
bred  feet  were  clad  in  faded  cotton  stockings;  she  herself 
looked  high-bred  and  faded.  Her  air  and  tone  were  those  of  one 
to  whom  life  had  brought  rude  shocks  —  such  as,  that  lovely 
woman's  portion  was  sacrifice  ever,  and  that  men  cared  only 
for  the  first  bloom  of  girlish  beauty  —  and  who  found  her  only 
consolations  in  her  religion,  and  in  the  noble  words,  My  Duty. 

"You  must  see  her  when  she  calls,  I  suppose,  but  that  is  all. 
Until  she  completely  changes  her  ideas  on  all  subjects,  I  can 
not  allow  any  intimacy.  I  cannot." 

"She  means  to  be  nice  to  me,  mother.  And  besides  — 
that 's  the  sort  of  connections  you  and  father  have  given  us, 
you  know." 

Mrs.  Flower  denied  any  responsibility  whatever  for  the  ad 
vanced  Mary.  She  continued  her  remarks  with  interest,  the 
theme  being  one  of  her  favorites.  Angela,  having  moved  rest 
lessly  about  the  room  for  a  time,  had  halted  at  the  window. 
Hence,  she  gazed  out  at  a  board  fence  billed  all  over  with  ad 
vertisements  of  a  celebrated  spring  tonic.  A  trolley-car  went 
rumbling  by,  its  wheels  throwing  off  jets  of  icy  rain-water.  It 
had  been  a  long,  long  day. 

"  The  things  women  will  do  when  they  discover  they  're  not 
attractive  to  men!  They  simply  get  defiant.  They  get  all 
reckless  and  bitter! " 

Into  the  narrow  walkway  below  turned  a  very  tall  man, 
under  a  small  greenish  umbrella.  In  the  silence  of  the  house, 
the  front  door  was  heard  to  open  and  shut.  Then  there  were 
footsteps  along  the  hall  below,  and  another  door  shut  quietly, 
toward  the  back. 

*\ 

"Anything,  anything  to  distract  their  minds!" 


Angela's    Business 


"Mother!  —  where  on  earth  do  you  suppose  father  goes! 
His  lecture  was  over  at  half -past  three.  If  only,  only,  he  'd 
try  to  get  some  patients!  But  he  's  not  even  in  for  his  office 
hour  half  the  time!" 

''I'm  sure  I  do  not  know,"  replied  her  mother,  generally, 
and  picked  up  her  coverless  magazine. 

Angela  fidgeted  at  the  window,  drumming  on  the  dripping 
pane.  Presently  she  said:  — 

"Oh,  mother!  Why  could  n't  you  or  father  have  some  re 
lations  that  would  help  us!  We  're  the  only  family  I  ever  heard 
of  that  has  n't  a  single  rich  relation! " 

Her  mother,  not  looking  up,  mentioned  complainingly  the 
branch  of  her  family  to  which  she  always  referred  in  such  dis 
cussions. 

"Much  good  the  Ashburtons  have  done  us!"  said  Angela 
truly,  and  also  as  usual.  "When  they  think  we  're  not  good 
enough  to  speak  to.  I  have  nobody  to  help  me  but  my 
self." 

It  was  as  if  the  girl  was  herself  struck  with  the  truth  of  her 
own  observation.  Her  gaze  out  the  window  became  thought 
ful,  and  then  intent.  Suddenly,  without  more  speech,  she  left 
the  window  and  the  room. 

In  the  hall  there  came  an  interruption.  An  untutored  voice 
bawled  up,  without  the  slightest  preamble:  — 

11  Sugar  has  n't  came/" 

"All  right,"  responded  the  young  housekeeper,  after  a 
short  annoyed  pause. 

And  then,  returning  to  her  own  room,  she  thought:  "If 
I  telephone  from  Mrs.  Doremus's  now,  it  '11  be  too  late  for 
supper.  I  '11  have  to  ask  Wallie  —  just  to  step  around  ..." 

Angela  shut  the  door  behind  her  and  lighted  a  flaring  gas- 
jet.  Then  she  stood  still,  knitting  her  brows  slightly,  glanc- 

132 


Angela's    Business 


ing  about.  She  wanted  writing-paper,  and  did  n't  know  where 
to  put  her  hands  on  any,  exactly. 

In  the  sharp  light  of  the  gas  it  was  now  seen  that  Angela's 
little  bedroom  lacked  Beauty,  of  the  purely  objective  sort: 
Beauty  of  that  kind  depending,  as  all  know,  on  fathers  being 
good  providers,  which  was  not  the  case  here,  alas.  Everything 
in  Angela's  room  was  cheap  when  it  was  new,  and  every 
thing  was  far  from  new  now.  A  very  large  old  walnut  ward 
robe  occupied  all  one  side  of  the  room,  awkwardly  substitut 
ing  for  a  clothes-closet.  The  bed  was  of  yellow  imitation-oak, 
and  sagged  considerably  in  the  middle  from  worn-out  springs. 
The  bureau  was  to  match;  its  somewhat  wavy  mirror  was  the 
nearest  Angela  came  to  a  dressing-table;  its  three  drawers 
would  never  quite  shut,  and  frequently  would  n't  quite  open. 
There  were  also  two  chairs  in  the  bedroom,  one  straight, 
one  a  re-seated  rocker,  and  a  small  walnut  work-table,  which 
trembled  dangerously  if  you  brushed  against  it. 

Nor  was  the  room  specially  spruce,  at  the  moment  at  least, 
people's  tastes  differing  in  these  matters,  even  in  the  same 
family.  Angela's  young  brother,  for  example,  kept  his  small 
room  shining  like  a  new  pin,  and  let  himself  personally  go  till 
he  was  a  disgrace  to  the  family.  Angela,  on  the  other  hand, 
whose  exquisite  personal  neatness  had  attracted  the  notice  of 
Charles  Garrott  himself,  was  more  or  less  indifferent  about  a 
room  which  nobody  but  the  family  ever  saw.  The  door  of  the 
wardrobe  stood  open  now,  with  one  of  the  yellow  bureau- 
drawers;  a  pair  of  shoes  rested  on  the  straight  chair,  with  a 
pair  of  stockings  curled  on  the  rag-carpet  below.  On  the  sway- 
backed  bed  were  strewn  various  things  —  a  towel,  two  old 
summer  dresses  that  she  had  been  trying  on  a  little  earlier  in 
the  afternoon,  a  pair  of  soiled  white  gloves,  a  paper  of  pins 
and  two  new  dress-shields. 

133 


Angela's    Business 


In  the  drawer  of  the  wardrobe,  Angela  presently  found 
several  sheets  of  note-paper,  and,  after  a  longer  search,  a 
single  envelope.  The  envelope  was  not  what  it  had  been  once. 
It  had  knocked  about  the  world  a  bit  in  its  time;  its  bright 
youth  was  gone.  Upon  its  face  was  a  dusky  smudge,  souvenir 
of  some  forgotten  encounter,  and,  near  the  smudge,  some  hand 
had  once  written  the  word  "Mrs.,"  and  then  lost  heart  and 
abandoned  the  whole  enterprise.  Still,  it  was  possibly  the  only 
envelope  in  the  house.  Angela  found,  after  due  trial,  that  the 
smudge  yielded,  quite  satisfactorily,  to  the  eraser  on  the  end 
of  a  pencil.  As  for  the  reminiscent  "Mrs.,"  that  was  easily 
enough  worked  over  into  a  "Mr.,"  though  not,  to  be  sure, 
without  a  slight  blot. 

Angela  sat  on  the  edge  of  the  bed.  She  pulled  the  rickety 
work-table  into  position  before  her.  Having  addressed  the 
remainder  of  the  envelope,  after  the  "Mr.,"  she  sat  biting  the 
penholder  for  a  space.  But  when  the  business  end  of  the  pen 
was  put  into  action,  it  went  ahead  quite  steadily:  — 

DEAR  MR.  GARROTT  [wrote  Angela  from  the  bedside] :  — 
When  you  left  here  the  other  night,  I  did  not  think  it  would 

be  so  long  before  I  would  see  you  again! 
I  have  been  very  sorry  about  our  misunderstanding  —  and  I 

have  felt  that  I  should  not  have  said  what  I  did.    I  have  thought 

it  all  over,  and  I  understand  better  now. 
When  you  are  not  so  busy,  you  must  come  in  to  see  me  —  and 

I  will  explain  just  what  I  mean.   I  could  n't  that  night. 
Yours  most  cordially, 

ANGELA  FLOWER. 

She  had  hardly  written  the  final  letter  of  her  pretty  name 
when  the  front  door  was  heard  to  open  again,  this  time  with  a 
bang.  Having  hastily  tucked  the  note  into  the  experienced 
envelope,  Angela  got  downstairs  before  her  little  brother, 
Wallie,  had  finished  taking  off  his  dripping  overcoat. 

134 


Angela's    Business 


Wallie  was  quite  the  queerest,  gravest  boy  Angela  had  ever 
known.  In  her  whole  life,  she  had  never  seen  him  laugh  but 
once.  That  was  one  summer  day  in  Mitchellton,  when  she, 
having  undertaken  to  paper  the  walls  of  her  room,  had  fallen 
backward  off  the  stepladder  into  a  bucket  of  paste.  Wallie 
was  an  eccentric,  undoubtedly.  Still,  he  was  admitted  to  be 
obliging  enough  about  little  things.  Now  he  made  no  special 
objections  to  going  for  the  sugar;  and  when  Angela  then  asked 
him  please  to  step  by  at  the  same  time,  and  give  the  note  to 
Mr.  Garrott,  he  only  said,  with  one  of  his  absent  stares: 
"Step  by?  That's  six  blocks  further." 

"Well,  I  have  n't  anybody  else  to  take  it  for  me,  Wallie," 
said  Angela,  in  a  voice  rather  like  her  mother's. 

"And,  Wallie,"  she  added,  presently,  "  I  'm  not  sure  whether 
there  '11  be  an  answer  or  not.  You  'd  better  just  ask  him, 
that's  the  best  way.  Just  say,  after  he  's  read  it,  '  Is  there 
any  answer?"' 


XI 


TO  the  host,  the  luncheon  party  at  the  Arlington  had 
not  once  presented  itself  as  a  jolly  gathering  of  any 
set,  young  or  old.  He  had  conceived  it  as  a  duty,  and 
an  expensive  one;  he  approached  it,  truth  to  tell,  with  a 
certain  secret  complacence  as  to  Mary  Wing  uppermost  in  his 
mind;  and  he  left  it  (after  Mary's  private  talk  with  him)  with 
chastened  reflections  and  a  group  of  new  reactions  on  the  sub 
ject  of  Egoettes. 

For  two  weeks,  Charles  had  been  very  busy  in  the  Studio. 
The  luncheon  stood  as  his  first  whirl  in  Society  since  Angela 
Flower's  bridge-party.  Donald  Manford,  departing  to  seek 
his  biggest  commission,  seemed  to  need  a  friendly  send-off. 
Miss  Carson  seemed  to  be  indicated  as  the  logical  co-sharer 
of  the  same.  At  the  Redmantle  Club,  as  he  had  never  forgot 
ten,  Charles  had  taken  Donald  bodily  away  from  the  firm 
beautiful  girl  Mary  had  selected  to  be  his  wife.  Now,  as  it 
were,  he  was  handing  Donald  back  to  her  again  —  loyal 
Moderns  all.  Beyond  the  matchmaking,  however,  this  func 
tion  was  intended  to  cheer  up  Mary,  and  to  indicate  to  the 
Public  that  Charles  Garrott  was  her  supporter  in  adversity  as 
in  success.  Thus,  from  every  point  of  view,  the  "demoted" 
school-teacher  was  the  real  guest  of  honor,  and  the  host, 
when  not  fomenting  conversation  of  a  matrimonial  nature 
between  the  two  young  persons  on  his  right,  found  a  peculiar 
pleasure  in  conversing  with  her.  Indeed,  he  could  hardly  look 
at  Mary  to-day  without  a  lurking  smile. 

Later,  as  noted,  Charles  sobered.  What  Mary  lingered  to 

136 


Angela's    Business 


tell  him,  "for  his  own  good,"  was  that  Flora  Trevenna  had 
gone  away.  As  it  was  the  one  thing  he  had  supposed  Miss 
Trevenna  incapable  of  doing,  he  was  proportionately  taken 
by  surprise.  But,  for  a  moment,  he  saw  in  the  tidings  only  that 
the  great  obstacle  in  his  and  Mary's  way  back  to  the  High 
School,  their  common  Old  Man  of  the  Sea,  had  been  amaz 
ingly  removed. 

Endeavoring  to  conceal  his  immense  relief,  he  said:  "Gone 
away!  Why,  where  'd  she  go  to?" 

Mary's  reply  was  meant  to  shake  him,  and  it  did. 

"Oh  —  anywhere!  She  went,  not  because  she  had  any 
where  to  go,  but  just  because  she  would  n't  stay  here," 

"But  —  I  don't  understand  you!  I  thought  this  was  where 
she  wanted  to  stay." 

"  More  than  anything  else  in  the  world.  And  that  was  why 
she  went  —  don't  you  see?  She  went  because  of  her  mother 
and  father  and  sisters  —  whom  you  supposed  she  never  gave 
a  thought  to.  She  went  because  of  Mysinger  and  me." 

The  two  advanced  friends  stood  among  the  shrubs  of  the 
Arlington  winter  garden,  beside  a  little  tinkling  grotto.  In 
silence,  Charles  dropped  a  pebble  down  among  the  dusky 
forms  of  fish. 

"  Of  course,"  said  Mary,  slowly, "  I  told  her  a  story  about  — 
my  trouble  at  the  High  School.  But  I  could  see  that  she 
knew  all  the  time.  I  'm  sure  now  that  was  what  decided  her 
to  go  —  by  herself.  Some  friend  or  other  got  her  some  sort 
of  position  —  in  Philadelphia.  Of  course  she  went  without 
saying  anything  to  me.  ..." 

Her  voice,  which  could  be  so  annoyingly  calm  at  times,  was 
deeply  troubled.  Charles  expressed  sympathies,  with  haste; 
and,  indeed,  he  felt  them  now,  oddly  and  disturbingly.  It  was 
as  if  Miss  Trevenna,  by  that  simple  act  of  getting  down  off 

137 


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other  people's  backs,  had  too  suddenly  upset  his  whole 
opinion  of  her. 

"Don't  you  think,  after  all,"  he  said  presently,  "it  may  be 
easier  for  her  somewhere  else  for  a  while,  than  — " 

"Oh,  easier  in  a  way,  yes!  But  I  know  she  felt,  and  I  think, 
too,  that  her  only  hope  of  really  putting  her  life  together 
again,  ever,  was  here  —  where  she  broke  it  in  two.  To  go  and 
bury  herself  among  strangers  won't  ever  settle  anything.  Oh," 
exclaimed  Mary,  "if  she  could  only,  only  marry  now!  I  sup 
pose  people  might  stop  thinking  of  her  as  a  pariah  then,  I  sup 
pose  she  might  come  back!  But  what's  the  use  of  hoping? 
She's  still  crazily  in  love  with  that  man,  you  see." 

"  What !  —  she  is!  Why  'd  she  leave  him  then  —  ?  " 

The  former  principal  regarded  him,  drawing  on  her  gloves. 
She  had  dark  eyebrows,  well-marked  and  unusually  arched; 
they  gave  a  peculiar  intentness  to  her  blue  gaze,  and  a  faint 
habitual  interrogativeness.  Now,  perhaps  at  the  young  man's 
expression,  she  laughed,  suddenly  and  naturally.  Her  spirit 
was  not  broken  certainly. 

"And  women  are  really  so  awfully  simple,  too!  Of  course 
she  left  him,  Mr.  Garrott,  because  she  did  n't  think  he  cared 
enough  for  her  any  longer  to  —  justify  her." 

And,  grave  again,  she  asked,  directly:  "Have  you  really 
doubted  that  she  has  a  higher  ideal  of  love  than  half  the  good 
people  who've  wanted  to  run  her  out  of  the  city  and  stone 
her?" 

This,  indeed,  Charles  had  had  no  reason  to  doubt.  He,  of 
course,  had  never  shared  the  low  opinion  of  a  woman,  that  she 
had  but  one  virtue,  and  that  one  too  crudely  appraised.  His 
complaint  against  this  girl  had  been  upon  a  wholly  different 
ground  —  now  abruptly  fallen  beneath  his  feet.  He  was 
troubled  with  the  sense  that  this  young  figure,  in  vanishing, 

138 


Angela's    Business 


had  suddenly  touched  the  dignity  of  tragedy.  He  had  remem 
bered,  with  a  little  shock,  that  Miss  Trevenna  was  not  yet 
twenty-five  years  of  age. 

And  still,  he,  the  authority,  knew  that  having  a  high  ideal 
was  not  enough. 

As  the  two  moderns  left  the  hotel, he  said  in  a  grave  manner: 
"Let  me  take  you  home." 

"  No,  don't  think  of  it !  I  'm  only  going  to  the  car-line,"  said 
Mary;  and  added  absently:  "I  've  been  trying  all  week  to  go 
to  see  Angela,  and  now  I  must." 

"Ah,  yes!  —  certainly! "  said  the  luncheon  host  hastily,  and 
a  look  that  could  only  be  described  as  guilty  flitted  visibly 
over  his  face. 

But  this  disappeared;  the  somewhat  chastened  authorita 
tive  look  returned  at  once.  Pursuing  his  tutorial  round, 
Charles  seemed  able  to  think  of  nothing  else  but  Mary's  ill- 
starred  friend,  who  had  so  damaged  Mary,  who  had  so  staked 
and  smashed  her  own  life,  on  a  sentence  in  a  book. 

And  who  put  that  sentence  into  a  book,  and  who  was  going 
to  wipe  it  out  with  another,  if  not  he,  Charles?  Here,  it  might 
be,  he  had  a  pointer  or  two  to  give  to  that  great  compeer  of 
his,  the  lady  in  Sweden. 

He  had  done  Miss  Trevenna  a  serious  wrong,  of  course;  he 
had  judged  her  by  the  company  she  kept.  It  was  an  age  when 
cheeky  "prophets"  were  shouting  from  every  bush  a  New 
philosophy  which  amounted  to  this:  that  civilized  society 
must  be  made  accommodating  to  self-indulgent  people.  They 
did  not  mention,  very  probably  they  did  not  know,  that  it 
had  not  been  easy  to  civilize  society,  and  that  self-indulgent 
people  had  not  done  the  job.  With  such  shallow  egoists  he  had 
classed  Miss  Trevenna;  and  now,  silent  still,  she  had  finely 
refuted  him.  There  was,  indeed,  a  quality  not  for  little  folk 

139 


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in  this  girl's  fierce  imprudences.  At  the  test,  she  had  repudi 
ated  the  Ego,  kicked  off  all  the  meanness  and  flabbiness  of 
her  teachings.  But  in  the  meantime,  unfortunately,  these 
teachings  had  done  for  her. 

And  it  seemed  to  Charles  Garrott,  tramping  intently  along 
(for  the  downpour  gave  him  the  freedom  of  the  streets  to-day) 
that  it  would  be  a  sweet  and  glorious  thing  if,  say,  a  dozen  of 
these  leathern-lunged  professors  of  a  new  chaos  could  be 
gathered  up,  from  the  studies  and  libraries  where  they  sat  so 
snug  around  the  world,  and  brought  here  to  share  this  girl's 
catastrophe  and  go  with  her  in  her  exile.  And  by  George !  — 
they  should  n't  squirm  out  by  trying  to  blame  it  all  on  a  mere 
ignorant  Public  Opinion  either!  No,  he,  Charles,  having  a  lot 
of  them  together  thus,  would  improve  the  occasion  to  explain, 
once  and  for  all,  that  freedom  was  not  a  thing  that  any  chance 
passer  could  pick  up  and  use,  like  a  cane;  but,  rather,  the  last 
difficult  conquest  of  a  unified  race.  He  would  inform  them 
that  it  was  only  too  fatally  easy  to  act  "free,"  at  others'  ex 
pense,  the  difficult  and  important  thing  being,  precisely,  not 
so  to  act.  And  as  to  love,  he  would  hammer  into  their  thick 
heads  that  the  way  to  freedom  was  NOT  through  the  delight 
fully  easy  course  of  "demonstrating  experiment"  by  self- 
€lected  Exceptional  People,  but  by  the  far  more  difficult 
demonstration  that  men  and  women  could  be  strong  and  con 
stant  in  their  affections,  and  trustworthy  in  their  passions. 

There,  indeed,  was  a  demonstration  for  Exceptional  People 
to  get  to  work  on  at  once.  Why  write  large  books  to  declare 
that  "the  great  love"  was  its  own  justification.  Why  waste 
good  ink  upon  an  ideal  truism?  On  what  day  would  a  New 
book-writer  teach  men  and  women  how  to  love  greatly,  or 
how  to  tell  even  a  little  love  from  love's  baser  counterfeit?  So 
long  as  every  schoolboy,  drawn  by  a  brief  spark,  will  swear 

140 


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that  his  is  the  great  love;  so  long  as  men  greatly  love  one  per 
son  this  year,  and  next  year  quite  another;  so  long  as  they 
will  gladly  deceive  themselves,  or  ape  emotions  above  them, 
lest  they  must  deny  themselves  a  passing  indulgence:  thus 
long  would  untrustworthy  mortals  need  the  hard  restraint  of 
Law. 

"  Why,  if  men  and  women  had  the  quality  of  love  needed  to 
make  'freedom'  work,"  thought  the  tutor  suddenly,  sloshing 
along  toward  the  Choristers',  "  they  would  n't  need  the  free 
dom!  No,  then  they'd  be  perfectly  satisfied  with  monoga 
mous  marriage." 

Decidedly  impressed  with  this  epigram,  Charles  thought 
at  once  of  " Notes  on  Women."  To  draw  the  ruined  life  of 
Miss  Trevenna  across  the  line  of  his  new  novel  had,  of  course, 
come  into  his  mind  while  he  yet  talked  with  Mary.  But  he  was 
fully  aware  that  not  one  novel,  or  five,  would  ever  plumb 
bottom  here. 

Nevertheless,  these  thoughts  pursued  the  young  man 
through  his  lesson  with  Miss  Grace  Chorister,  and  up  to  the 
very  door  of  the  Studio.  There,  he  suddenly  became  a  work 
ing  author  again. 

It  was  now  five-thirty  o'clock  in  the  rainy  afternoon.  The 
demands  of  hospitality  had  forced  the  postponement  of  Miss 
Grace  a  full  hour,  and  the  cutting  altogether  of  the  old  lady 
who  was  studying  French.  Entering  his  retreat  thus  belatedly, 
Charles  shot  a  look  ahead  at  the  writing-table,  according  to 
his  habit.  A  letter  lay  on  the  table,  wearing  a  distinctly  busi 
ness  air;  and  when  the  young  man  was  still  several  paces  off,  he 
saw  that  the  envelope  bore  the  name  of  "  Willcox's  Weekly." 

For  the  most  part,  Charles's  communications  from  editors 
had  come  to  him  in  long  envelopes  of  an  ominous,  a  rejec- 
tional,  fatness.  Now  it  was  his  hour  to  see  other  samples  from 

141 


Angela's    Business 


the  editorial  envelope  supply,  square  envelopes,  gratifyingly 
thin.  Breaking  the  square  thin  envelope  of  "Willcox's 
Weekly"  with  nervous  hurry,  Charles  read:  — 

DEAR  MR.  GARROTT:  — 

We  have  pleasure  in  accepting  your  interesting  sketch  of  Miss 
Wing,  for  early  publication  in  the  WEEKLY.  Our  "  Persons  in  the 
Foreground"  department  is  always  in  the  market  for  entertaining 
material  of  this  character. 

Check  for  $20  will  follow  in  due  course.    We  are,  with  thanks, 
Yours  sincerely, 

WILLCOX'S  WEEKLY. 

Having  read  these  few  lines  once,  the  author,  still  standing, 
read  them  again,  and  yet  again.  Upon  his  lip  was  the  faint 
smile  it  had  worn  when  he  looked  at  Mary  at  the  luncheon  — 
before  she  began  telling  him  things  for  his  good.  He  was 
fairly  entitled  to  wear  this  smile;  but  now  it  seemed  in  danger 
of  becoming  fixed  for  life. 

He  was  selling  write-ups  of  Mary  like  hot  cakes;  there  was 
no  other  word  for  it.  He  had  written  and  sent  out  three  write- 
ups  —  an  unprecedented  number  about  a  single  person  — 
and  now  he  had  sold  two  of  them  already.  He  had  hoped  to 
plant,  say,  one  write-up  among  the  weeklies  —  to  get  quick  re 
sults  —  and  now  he  had  planted  two  in  the  weeklies.  More 
over,  the  third  write-up  had  been  in  the  hands  of  a  famous 
weekly  for  ten  days  now. 

That  he  had  managed  it  all  with  remarkable  adroitness, 
the  young  man  could  not  conceal  from  himself.  Cunningly 
enough,  he  had  based  all  the  write-ups  on  the  fact  that  Mary 
Wing,  at  thirty,  had  risen  almost  to  the  top  of  a  large  city 
school  system,  where  no  woman  had  ever  risen  before.  For 
that  made  Mary  a  public  figure;  that  justified  the  write-ups. 
But,  the  bait  thus  thrown,  he  had  given  to  each  eulogy  a 

142 


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special  character  and  thesis  of  its  own,  always  with  an  eye  to 
local  effects.  This  piece  here,  for  example,  which  "Willcox's 
Weekly"  found  so  extremely  interesting  and  entertaining, 
concerned  Mary  the  Freewoman,  and  touched  delicately  yet 
with  vigor  upon  her  late  persecution  for  righteousness'  sake. 
And  this  piece,  the  most  personal  and  the  best  of  the  lot,  alone 
bore  the  signature  of  Charles  King  Garrott.  He  had  got 
Hartwell  to  sign  one,  Elsie  White  Story,  President  of  the 
State  Equal  Suffrage  League,  to  sign  another.  And  only 
yesterday,  Mrs.  Story  had  telephoned  that  her  piece  (Mary 
the  "Feminist"  —  only  you  may  be  sure  Charles  had  not 
used  that  horrible  word)  had  been  gobbled  up  by  the  "Satur 
day  Review,"  and  sent  around  the  "Review's"  delightful 
letter. 

So  Charles  could  recall  Mary's  hard  saying,  that  day  at  the 
High  School,  with  a  sense  of  triumph  now.  She,  who  had  said 
he  could  n't  help  her,  had  rather  overlooked  this  gift  he  had, 
his  power  and  his  art.  Unquestionably,  the  thing  was  going  to 
break  big:  she  would  have  the  surprise  of  her  life.  .  .  . 

"Great  heavens!  How  I  can  write!"  suddenly  exulted  the 
young  man,  throwing  out  his  arms.  "I  '11  beat  'em  all  some 
day!" 

Upon  which,  exactly  as  at  a  cue  in  a  play,  the  door  from  the 
bedroom  opened,  slowly  and  quietly.  And  there  stood  Judge 
Blenso  in  the  crack,  a  flat  package  in  his  hand. 

Between  uncle  and  nephew  there  passed  a  long  stare.  The 
uncle  began  to  turn  a  little  pale.  But  it  was  the  nephew  who 
spoke  first,  nervously  and  yet  expectantly  too :  — 

"Prepare  yourself,  Charles,  my  dear  fellow!  I  much  fear 
itVBandwomen'!" 

It  was  a  long  time  before  he  was  alone  again. 

143 


Angela's    Business 


There  were  moments  in  every  writer's  life,  of  course,  when 
he  was  obliged  to  wish  frankly  that  he  did  n't  have  to  have  a 
secretary.  What  a  writer  most  wanted  at  times  was  solitude, 
just  a  chance  to  sit  quietly  and  think  things  over. 

A  great  while  Judge  Blenso  had  pottered  about  under  his 
little  red  "Nothing  But  Business,  Please"  sign.  Now  he  was 
posting  elaborate  entries  in  his  secretary's  book,  now  he 
sang  sweetly  to  himself  over  wrapping-paper,  paste,  and 
twine.  For  if  his  sedentary  employer's  failure  to  blow  up, 
this  time,  had  momentarily  nonplussed  the  Judge,  the  sight  of 
the  letter  from  "Willcox's  Weekly"  had  raised  him  to  the 
highest  spirits  again  at  once.  That  distant  people,  entire 
strangers,  were  actually  proving  willing  to  exchange  real 
money  for  words  written  by  Charles  there,  and  typed  by  him, 
Judge  Blenso,  —  here  was  a  delightful  thing,  full  of  novelty 
and  promise.  And  nothing  would  do,  of  course,  but  that  he 
must  start  the  rejected  novel  out  upon  another  journey  to 
New  York  without  loss  of  a  moment's  time.  Business  before 
pleasure,  rain  or  shine.  That  was  his  way. 

But  he  went  at  last,  to  make  his  toilet  for  the  express-office. 
And  Charles,  alone,  sat  taking  stock,  with  no  more  exultation. 

Blank  and  Finney's  letter  had  proved  to  be  twin-sister  to 
the  remembered  letter  from  Willcox  Brothers  Company.  That 
is  to  say,  it  was  rejection,  flat  and  unqualified.  But  this  time, 
after  the  first  shock,  Charles  had  perceived  that  he  did  not 
seem  to  be  much  surprised.  It  appeared  that  his  expectation 
of  the  old  novel  had,  after  all,  died  violently  on  that  other 
day.  It  was  almost  as  if  he  himself  had  come  to  despise  the 
old  novel,  because  the  publishers  despised  it  —  as  if  that  were 
any  reason  .  .  . 

From  the  mantel  he  had  plucked  a  thick  ledger  entitled 
(on  a  neatly  typed  label),  THE  RECORD.  This  ledger  was  the 

144 


Angela's    Business 


great  work  of  Judge  Blenso's  life,  and  large  enough  for  twenty 
authors.  Here  the  Judge  set  down,  with  much  pains  and  a  strik 
ing  assortment  of  colored  inks,  the  detailed  progress  of  each  of 
Charles's  manuscripts:  "When  Finished,"  "When  Sent  Out," 
" Where  Sent,"  "Editor's  Decision,"  "Editor's  Comments  if 
Any,"  "Remarks,"  etc.  On  these  pages,  the  essential  part  of 
"Bondwomen's"  career  (officially  known  as  Entry  2)  was 
thus  recorded:  — 

Comments 
Decision.  if  Any. 

1.  Willcox  Brothers 

Company Adverse.     Declined  for 

financial  rea 
sons. 

2.  Blank  and  Finney  do.  do. 

The  Record  now  showed  nine  entries,  including  the  novel. 
Entry  i  was  "The  Truth  About  Jennie,"  which  the  Judge 
had  insisted  on  posting  in,  to  give  a  tone  of  success  to  his 
work  at  the  outset.  Entries  3,  4,  5,  and  6  were  short  stories; 
Entries  7,  8,  and  9,  the  write-ups  of  Mary.  The  pages  de 
voted  to  the  write-ups  made,  as  we  know,  stimulating  read 
ing,  but  with  the  fiction  entries  the  case  was  otherwise.  Here 
under  "  Comments  if  Any,"  the  words  "See  printed  form,  on 
file,"  appeared  with  monotonous,  indeed  sickening,  regularity. 
The  Record  did  show, indeed,  that  the  "Universal,"  in  reject 
ing  Entry  5,  — •  "When  Amy  Left  Home,"  —  had  written  a 
personal  letter  furnishing  the  Judge  with  this  "Comment": 
"Excellently  written,  but  claimed  unsuited  to  his  present 
needs.  Let  him  hear  from  us  again."  Otherwise,  rejection 
was  unmitigated. 

A  scant  showing  for  the  work  of  four  years,  look  at  it  how 
you  would.  One  examining  these  coldly  dispassionate  annals 
would  probably  say,  offhand,  that  there  was  but  one  form  of 

145 


Angela's    Business 


writing  Charles  King  Garrott  was  qualified  to  do:  that  was 
the  write-up  form.  He  had  just  read  his  two  letters  again,  his 
acceptance  and  his  rejection,  side  by  side.  Unusual  and  pecu 
liar  it  seemed  that  the  only  writing  he  had  sold  for  money > 
since  "Jennie,"  was  this  series  of  articles  designed  to  bring 
fame  to  Mary  Wing.  Of  course,  as  far  as  that  went,  a  man 
would  like  a  little  fame  for  himself,  now  and  then.  .  .  . 

"Why,  I'm  a  fool  to  think  I  can  write! "  groaned  the  young 
man,  suddenly.  " I 'm  wasting  my  life!  I  ought  to  be  carrying 
bricks  up  a  ladder." 

His  fall  from  complacence  was,  indeed,  complete.  However, 
every  writer  knows  these  little  ups  and  downs.  It  may  be, 
that  Charles  did  not  believe  his  bitter  words,  even  then.  And 
now  his  secretary  reentered,  checking  thought. 

"Well!  Now  for  the  express!" 

Judge  Blenso  wore  a  new  English  mackintosh  and  an  olive 
felt  hat,  rakishly  turned  up  in  front.  No  board  of  social  in 
vestigators  could  have  commended  him  for  spending  virtually 
all  his  wage  upon  his  back;  but  the  results  seemed  always  to 
justify  him  none  the  less. 

"And,  my  dear  fellow!  — you  should  n't  worry,  as  the  ex 
pression  goes !  '  Bandwomen '  's  a  charmin'  novel,  a  charmin' 
sweet  love-story,  and  James  Potter  Sons  '11  be  sure  to  take  it 
—  gad,  by  the  first  mail!" 

Having  seen  it  with  his  own  eyes  in  Willcoxes'  famous  letter, 
the  Judge  was  now  finally  convinced  that  "Bandwomen"  was 
the  correct  title  of  Entry  2,  just  as  he  had  said  in  the  beginning. 
Further  argument  being  useless,  the  young  man  returned  a 
vague  reply. 

"And  there's  that  other  idea  of  mine,  too,"  said  the  Judge 
genially,  halting  with  his  package  under  his  arm  —  "bringing 
your  sketches  of  Miss  Wing  out  in  book  form!  Put  in  Entry  i, 

146 


Angela's    Business 


too,  'Jennie's  Truth/  if  we  liked  —  make  a  regular  holiday 
giftbook!  Gad,  you  know,  Miss  Wing's  little  pupils  at  the 
school  would  give  us  a  whackin'  sale!" 

He  went  out  blithe  upon  his  duty.  After  an  interval,  the 
adoring  voice  of  Mrs.  Herman  floated  up,  beseeching  him  to 
put  on  his  ar'tics. 

At  the  Studio  table  Charles  sat,  struggling  to  get  down  to 
work.  He  had  put  away  The  Record,  put  away  embittered 
thoughts.  But  he  did  not  get  down  to  work  with  much  success 
all  the  same,  the  reason  being  that  his  great  Subject,  unluck 
ily,  was  no  longer  clear  in  his  mind. 

From  the  table-drawer  he  had  produced  a  stack  of  manu 
script,  an  inch  high;  and  now  he  sat,  not  reading  it,  but  merely 
disapproving  it  en  masse.  The  stack  was  his  premature  effort 
to  begin,  really  to  begin  his  new  novel  —  six  chapters  of  the 
new  novel  written,  fifteen  thousand  words.  Launching  upon 
this  draft  an  hour  after  he  finished  Mary  the  Freewoman,  he 
had  pushed  on,  night  after  night,  at  first  with  confident  rapidity. 
Latterly,  he  had  become  conscious  of  an  increasing  sense  of  re 
sistance.  And  now  he  knew  that  all  this  was  mere  waste  stuff, 
accomplishing  nothing  but  to  show  him  what  not  to  write. 

Well,  but  what  to  write  then?  What  did  he  really  want  to 
say?  It  was  absurd;  but  he  did  not  know.  It  really  seemed 
that  he  saw  too  much  to  settle,  with  enthusiasm,  upon  any 
thing.  By  constant  accessions  of  fresh  understanding,  his 
centre  of  balance,  his  novel's  chief  prerequisite,  was  kept  in  a 
continuous  state  of  flux.  .  .  . 

Of  "material"  on  the  Unrest,  Charles  possessed  a  super 
fluity;  of  "plots,"  of  "significant  characters"  and  "illustra 
tive  incidents,"  his  head  was  fuller  than  his  pencil  would 
ever  write.  His  problem,  of  course,  had  always  been  for  the 
fixed  point  of  view  and  the  moral  "line."  No  longer  could  he 

147 


Angela's    Business 


be  satisfied  with  that  crude,  simple  line  which  had  contented 
him  in  his  first  book,  which  still  contented  the  other  fellows: 
the  line  which  "  proved,"  as  Lily  Slender  proved,  that  economic 
independence  was  the  automatic  salvation  of  women.  He 
knew  that  was  n't  the  whole  story  now.  As  for  writing  a  book 
to  show  that  Woman's  Place  was  the  Home,  of  course  that 
had  never  crossed  his  mind,  even  when  most  strongly  gripped 
by  conservative  reactions.  His  quest  was  for  a  framework 
which  should  develop  conflicting  values  on  a  far  finer  scale. 

Of  course,  what  he  should  have  liked  to  show  was  a  wholly 
admirable  woman:  one  who  combined  all  the  sane  competence 
and  human  worth  of  the  best  new  women,  with  the  soft  faculty 
for  supplying  beauty  and  charm  of  her  old-fashioned  sister. 
But  that  day  in  Mary's  office  had  left  him  with  the  honest 
suspicion  that  such  a  goddess  did  not  exist,  and  could  n't. 
From  the  other  direction  also,  as  noted,  his  delicate  scales  had 
been  joggled,  with  unsettling  literary  effects.  The  too  hasty 
manuscript  on  the  writing-table  by  no  means  followed  the 
"line"  the  author  had  first  plotted,  prior  to  his  meditations  in 
the  Green  Park,  after  the  bridge-party.  No,  in  this  draft  the 
Home-Maker  was  married  and  had  three  children  in  Chapter 
One.  Through  all,  the  desire  to  rebuke  the  egoism  of  the  day 
had  persisted,  as  clearly  the  point  of  view  most  inviting  to 
him,  fullest  of  possibilities.  And  now  Miss  Trevenna,  in  some 
way,  had  disturbed  and  unsettled  him  there  too.  .  .  . 

The  rain  beat  against  the  Studio  windows.  The  green- 
shaded  lamp  burned  dully  on  the  author's  table.  Big  Bill, 
without  surcease,  ticked  off  the  author's  minutes.  Charles 
rubbed  the  bridge  of  his  nose,  pondering  deeply.  Just  now, 
as  he  turned  the  pages  of  his  private  book  —  where  the 
essay  form  had  long  since  been  abandoned,  where  appeared 
the  most  surprising  vacillations  of  authoritative  opinion — he 

148 


Angela's    Business 


had  made  a  somewhat  striking  discovery.  It  had  suddenly 
come  upon  him  that  "Notes  on  Women"  had,  gradually  but 
distinctly,  dwindled  down  into  "Notes  on  Mary,"  "Notes  on 
Angela  Flower,"  and  "Notes  on  Flora  Trevenna."  In  short, 
it  appeared  that,  in  the  most  unconscious  way,  he  had  been 
seeking  to  extract  his  "line"  from  his  own  story,  as  it  were, 
from  "life." 

The  discovery  came  upon  the  young  man  as  most  arresting 
and  significant. 

"And  I  don't  know  where  I  stand,  that's  just  the  trouble! 
I  ought  to  wait  awhile,"  he  thought,  aloud.  "See  how  it 
all  works  out.  .  .  .  Things  '11  be  turning  up.  .  .  ." 

On  which  —  once  more  —  Judge  Blenso's  picturesque  head 
came  sticking  through  the  Studio  door,  and  Judge  Blenso's 
rich  voice  said,  officially:  — 

"Young  gentleman  here  with  a  letter,  Mr.  Garrott.  Admit 
him?" 

Returning  to  actuality  with  a  slight  start,  Charles  replied, 
"Admit  him  —  certainly!"  A  day  for  letters,  indeed! 

Forthwith,  the  Judge  standing  aside,  the  young  gentleman 
stepped  into  the  Studio.  A  grave-looking  young  gentleman 
he  proved  to  be,  of  some  sixteen  years,  perhaps,  with  a  dome 
like  forehead,  a  resolute  mouth,  and  thick  spectacles.  He 
entered  in  silence,  in  silence  held  out  the  missive  referred  to. 

"Good-evening,"  said  Charles.  "Thank  you.  This  comes 
from  —  ?" 

"My  sister,  Angela  Flower." 

The  young  man's  heart  seemed  to  drop  a  little. 

"  Ah,  yes !  And  —  ah  —  is  there  —  an  answer?  —  " 

"I '11  wait  and  see,"  said  Wallie  Flower,  following  instruc 
tions,  in  a  deep,  calm  voice. 

"Ah,  yes.  Sit  down  a  moment,  won't  you?" 

149 


Angela's    Business 


He  essayed  a  bright  negligence  which  he  was  far  from  feeling : 
this  thing  had  come  suddenly.  No  amount  of  scientific  argu 
ment,  no  recollection  of  sharp  rebukes  received,  had  ever  con 
vinced  Charles  that  he  had  cut  a  fine  figure  in  the  affair  on  the 
sofa.  Indeed,  the  very  ease  with  which  he  had  avoided  all 
further  consequences  of  his  Rash  Act,  by  the  purely  mechan 
ical  device  of  street-cars,  had  deepened,  rather  than  diminished 
his  consciousness  of  obligations  unfulfilled,  of  caddishness,  in 
short.  To  salute  a  girl  tenderly  after  her  bridge-party,  and 
then  never  go  within  a  mile  of  her  again  —  well,  that  was  a 
little  crude,  say  what  you  would. 

Hence  Mr.  Garrott,  opening  Angela's  envelope  with  the 
blurred  "Mr.,"  anticipated  bitter  reproaches,  anticipated  be 
ing  termed  a  brute  again,  and  called  on  to  be  honorable  with 
out  further  delay.  Hence  again,  as  his  eye  leapt  over  the  neat 
lines,  and  found  only  sweet  forgiveness  and  generous  friendli 
ness,  he  felt  a  sudden  upstarting  of  relief  and  gratitude.  A 
more  perfect  note  had  never  been  written !  Why,  the  charm 
ing  girl  was  n't  expecting  anything  of  him  at  all! 

Or,  rather,  nothing  at  all  worth  mentioning.  On  a  second 
glance  through  the  perfect  note,  the  hypercritical  young  man 
did  observe  an  expression  or  two  not  up  to  the  general  stand 
ard,  perhaps.  "I  did  not  think  it  would  be  so  long  before  I 
would  see  you  again."  "  When  you  are  not  so  busy,  you  must 
come  in  to  see  me."  On  the  whole,  it  could  be  argued  that  it 
was  rather  a  mistake  to  put  those  sentences  in.  Fine  as  the 
note  was,  it  would  have  been  a  little  finer  still  without  them. 
Yet,  under  the  circumstances,  what  more  natural?  And  of 
course,  as  far  as  that  went,  he  and  the  city  traction  system 
had  the  issue  in  their  hands. 

So  Charles  looked  up  buoyantly  at  the  bearer  of  good  tid 
ings,  to  speak. 


Angela's    Business 


The  bearer,  however,  had  clearly  forgotten  his  presence.  He 
had  remained  standing,  three  feet  from  the  table-end,  and 
was  found  to  be  gazing,  in  the  most  pointed  manner,  at  the 
old  Studio  lamp.  The  grave  face  of  Miss  Angela's  brother 
plainly  expressed  amusement,  and  a  certain  good-natured 
contempt. 

"  Hello ! "  said  Charles,  diverted.  "  Anything  wrong  there?  " 

Without  turning,  the  boy  answered  with  a  small  dry 
chuckle:  "Yes.  Pretty  near  everything." 

"Well!  I  Ve  noticed  it  has  n't  been  burning  well.  Need  a 
new  mantel,  I  suppose  — " 

"  New  mantel  won 't  do  you  any  good  long's  your  air-draft 's 
choked  that  way." 

"Oh!  So  that 's  the  trouble,  is  it?" 

"That's  one  of  them.  P'r'aps  you  like  it  that  way?" 

The  proprietor  of  the  lamp  having  disclaimed  such  a  fancy, 
the  strange  lad  saicU  "Well,  I'll  fix  it  for  you,  then.  Sit 
steady." 

He  reached  up  an  arm  long  as  a  monkey's,  which  shed  drops 
of  water  on  the  writing-table,  and  the  green  glow  suddenly 
faded  out,  leaving  the  Studio  in  total  darkness. 

Out  of  the  Stygian  gloom  Charles  said:  "There's  another 
light  there.  I'll—" 

"I  know.  Thought  I  might  as  well  look  into  that  one,  too, 
while  I  'm  at  it.  Just  give  your  globe  and  chimney  a  minute 
to  cool." 

"Oh,  of  course!  —  certainly." 

"Don't  s'pose  you  want  to  stand  a  new  mantel  for  the 
lamp?" 

"I'm  enough  of  a  sport,  but  I  fear  there's  not  a  new  one 
in  the  house." 

"Hold  it  for  me,  please,"  said  the  boy. 


Angela's    Business 


A  pinpoint  of  light  had  appeared  in  the  blackness;  it  moved 
toward  Charles's  hand.  He  received  the  little  searchlight,  let 
it  go  out,  hastily  found  and  pushed  the  button  again.  And 
then  Miss  Angela's  brother  began  to  take  his  lamp  all  apart, 
cleaning  it,  blowing  through  it  at  unexpected  places,  and 
wiping  the  parts  with  a  dark  oily  rag,  which,  luckily  enough, 
he  seemed  to  have  in  his  coat-pocket. 

The  lad's  single-mindedness,  his  un-selfconscious  matter- 
of-factriess  had  attracted  Charles  at  sight.  He  recalled  what 
Mary  Wing  had  told  him  of  Wallie  Flower's  struggles  to  get 
an  education.  Thus,  as  the  light-repairing  proceeded  in  the 
almost  total  darkness,  a  conversation  grew  up,  at  first  largely 
question  and  answer.  And  the  upshot  of  it  was  that  Charles, 
as  a  tutor,  offered  to  instruct  Wallie  Flower,  free  gratis,  in 
German  and  English,  the  two  college  entrance  subjects  in 
which  he  was  still  somewhat  deficient. 

This  odd  development  came  at  the  end  of  the  talk,  when 
the  illuminating  power  of  both  Charles's  and  the  Judge's 
lights  had  been  notably  improved.  When  the  brother  under 
stood  that  further  education  was  being  offered  him  for  noth 
ing,  a  gleam  came  suddenly  into  his  oddly  mature  gaze. 

He  almost  exclaimed:  "Do  you  know  German?" 

"You  might  say  I  wrote  it." 

He  pondered.   "That  means  you  do  know  it?" 

"Like  a  member  of  the  family." 

"Do  you  teach  nights?" 

"I  'm  going  to  teach  you  nights." 

And  it  was  so  arranged,  the  lessons  to  begin  directly  after 
Christmas.  The  boy  became  briefly  embarrassed,  boggling 
over  his  thanks.  But  Charles  cut  him  short.  "  I  'm  doing  it 
because  I  want  to.  That's  the  only  reason  I  ever  do  any 
thing." 

152 


Angela's    Business 


Relieved,  Miss  Angela's  brother  turned  to  the  door,  for  all 
the  world  like  one  who  had  come  to  mend  the  lamps,  and 
nothing  else. 

"By  the  way,"  said  Charles,  casually.  "Thank  your  sister 
for  her  note,  and  say  that  I'll  send  an  answer  by  mail." 

He  was  left  pleased  with  the  interview,  and  with  himself. 
In  the  generous  gift  of  three  hours  a  week  to  Angela's  brother, 
he  perceived  something  fitting  and  compensatory.  If  obliga 
tion  existed  —  and  it  did,  in  a  way  —  did  not  this  discharge 
it,  subtly  and  modernly?  Kiss  the  sister  on  the  sofa,  tutor  the 
brother  in  the  Studio  —  what  more  fair  or  honorable  than 
that? 

One  thing  had  rather  struck  him,  of  course  —  Wallie 
Flower's  saying  that  he  had  hated  to  come  away  from  Mitch- 
ellton.  This,  it  seemed,  had  been  chiefly  due  to  Mr.  Bush, 
the  boy's  science  teacher  at  the  Mitchellton  Academy,  whom 
Wallie  clearly  adored,  whose  eyebrows  he  had  blown  off  in 
an  experiment  only  last  summer.  As  he  had  previously  un 
derstood  that  both  the  Doctor  and  Mrs.  Flower  had  also 
been  attached  to  Mitchellton,  it  really  appeared  that  Miss 
Angela  was  the  only  member  of  the  family  who  had  actually 
desired  to  make  the  move.  And  she  had  moved. 

But  this  thought  —  like  the  hypercriticisms  on  the  note  — 
merely  knocked  at  the  door  of  the  young  man's  mind  and 
passed  on.  He  felt  himself  warming  anew  toward  this  simple 
Type,  with  its  charming  friendly  instincts  and  its  sweet  for 
giveness  of  the  stormy  ways  of  men.  On  his  return  from  his 
holiday,  he  resolved  that  he  would  give  Angela  some  token 
of  his  regard  more  substantial  than  a  note  by  mail:  send  her, 
say,  with  that  book  of  hers,  a  costly  box  of  appreciative 
blossoms. 


XII 


UNLIKE  the  ladies  in  the  books,  Angela,  regrettably 
enough,  did  not  get  a  "  sheaf  of  letters  "  every  morn 
ing.  Mr.  Garrott's  answer  to  her  note,  which  lay  be 
side  her  breakfast-plate  on  the  second  day  following,  was, 
indeed,  her  only  mail  that  week.  Hence  it  was  with  feelings 
of  excitement  that  she  seized  a  table-fork  and  hastily  slit  the 
envelope. 
Angela  read:  — 

DEAR  Miss  FLOWER: 

May  I  say  how  deeply  I  appreciate  your  note?  And  will  you 
please  believe  that  I  have  blamed  myself  entirely  for  what  you 
so  generously  call  our  misunderstanding?  While,  of  course,  I  must 
continue  to  blame  myself,  you  cannot  know  how  pleasant  it  is  to 
be  permitted  to  feel  that  you  have  forgiven  me. 

With  the  deepest  appreciation,  and  all  the  good  wishes  of  the 
season,  believe  me, 

Yours  sincerely, 

CHARLES  KING  GARROTT. 

It  must  be  said  of  this  note  that  it  was  the  sort  that  puts  its 
best  foot  foremost.  First  impressions  of  it  were  agreeable, 
but  it  did  not  wear.  On  the  second  reading,  Angela  perceived 
that,  though  as  nice  as  possible,  Mr.  Garrott's  reply  said  noth 
ing  about  calling,  which,  in  a  manner  of  speaking,  was  the 
true  subject  of  the  correspondence.  By  the  time  she  had  read 
the  reply  half  a  dozen  times,  she  found  it  flatly  disappointing. 
Two  days  later,  when  she  heard  through  Cousin  Mary  Wing 
that  Mr.  Garrott  had  gone  to  the  country,  not  to  return  till 
after  the  New  Year,  she  was  conscious  of  a  sudden  and  per 
vading  hopelessness. 

154 


Angela's    Business 


The  feeling  applied,  not  to  her  principal  friend  alone,  but 
to  all  the  conditions  of  her  life. 

Angela  understood,  of  course,  that  Mr.  Garrott's  remark 
able  offer  to  tutor  Wallie  for  nothing  was  an  attention  to  her, 
and  a  very  handsome  one.  Still,  it  was  not  just  the  sort  of 
attention  that  a  young  girl  prizes  most,  perhaps;  and  in  es 
pecial  it  did  not  meet  the  needs  of  this  particular  situation. 
To  have  a  busy  man-friend  teaching  German  to  your  little 
brother  on  your  account  is  very  flattering,  indeed;  but  it  does 
not  necessarily  lead  to  the  early  clearing-up  of  a  personal 
misunderstanding.  That  Mr.  Garrott  had  been  much  worried 
by  their  misunderstanding,  all  along,  Angela  had  known,  by 
means  of  that  womanly  intuition  of  which  we  read  so  much; 
now  his  note  said  so,  in  so  many  words.  But,  manlike,  he 
still  did  not  see  that,  at  heart,  she  was  the  same  girl  that  had 
attracted  him  so  in  the  beginning,  and  that  if  he  would  but 
call,  she  would  make  everything  as  it  had  been  before. 

How  was  she  ever  to  see  him  again  now?  ^ 

At  nineteen,  youth  accepts  life's  vicissitudes  unquestion- 
ingly,  but  at  twenty-five,  a  womanly  woman  (if  still  without 
a  home,  a  husband  and  three  curly-headed  little  children)  has 
had  time  to  whittle  a  number  of  observations  to  a  fairly  sharp 
point.  Angela  thought  her  situation  a  hard  one,  and  it  was. 
Wealth,  influence,  valuable  connections  —  these  aids  were 
not  for  her.  All  the  ordinary  opportunities  enjoyed  by  girls 
"in  society,"  she  lacked  —  in  chief,  opportunities  of  meeting 
people  casually,  as  at  parties,  of  seeing  the  same  people  again 
and  again,  under  the  most  agreeable  auspices.  Her  family 
simply  failed  to  put  her  in  a  party  position,  as  it  might  be 
called;  in  consequence  of  which,  it  came  to  this,  that  really 
her  only  meeting-place  for  the  few  people  she  knew  was  on 
the  street,  walking.  And  even  at  the  best,  of  course,  that 

155 


Angela's    Business 


method  (by  the  mere  laws  of  choice  and  chance)  was  most 
unsatisfactory. 

Suppose  that  Mr.  Garrott  had  been  taking  walks  all  the 
time,  for  instance,  but,  by  reason  of  her  having  called  him 
a  brute,  was  choosing  other  streets  —  how  was  she  to  know  ? 
A  city  is  a  big  place,  and  one  young  girl  in  a  tight  skirt  can 
not  walk  very  fast  or  far,  or  cover  a  large  amount  of  space 
in  a  given  time. 

"Marna"  alone  was  outstanding;  and  it  carried  but  the 
slenderest  anticipations.  Moreover,  that  question,  all  these 
depressing  questions,  were  academic  now,  and  would  be  for 
weeks  to  come.  The  little  coterie  had  scattered  far,  and  she 
had  no  means  of  filling  the  empty  places. 

There  followed  the  dreariest  days  Angela  had  known  since 
winter  before  last  in  Mitchellton. 

"How  can  you  expect  anybody  to  notice  us,  mother?"  she 
exclaimed,  one  day.  "The  family  of  a  poor,  obscure  doctor, 
living  in  a  hut  on  a  back  street,  with  not  a  living  soul  to  help 
us!  I  think  it's  remarkable  I  accomplish  as  much  as  I  do." 

It  was  on  this  day,  a  cold  Sunday  afternoon  shortly  before 
Christmas,  that  the  lonely  girl  carried  out  a  good  intention 
she  had  had  in  mind  for  some  time.  She  wrote  a  long,  inti 
mate,  sisterly  letter  to  her  favorite  brother  Tommy,  who  had 
got  so  far  away  since  he  married  money  in  Pittsburg. 

Angela  had  just  come  in  from  a  freezing,  eventless  walk 
with  Fanny  Warder.  (Fanny,  who  as  Mrs.  Flower  said,  had 
made  a  great  success  of  her  life,  marrying  at  twenty,  seemed 
to  be  on  an  indefinite  "visit";  there  was  talk,  of  course.) 
Having  first  thawed  her  hands  at  her  register,  which  was  sup 
posed  to  waft  up  heat  from  the  stove  in  the  dining-room  below, 
but  did  n't  particularly,  Angela  drew  up  her  rocking-chair  into 
the  zone  of  ostensible  warmth.  She  sat  with  one  slender  foot 

156 


Angela's    Business 


curled  under  her,  by  a  trick  that  no  man  has  ever  mastered. 
And  this  time  she  had  not  searched  for  the  formal  tools  of  a 
note-writer,  but  employed  a  stub  of  a  pencil  and  a  pad  upon 
her  lifted  knee. 

"Dearest  Tommy,"  wrote  Angela,  and  followed  with  a 
solid  paragraph  of  very  affectionate  greeting.  She  went 
on :  — 

Well,  Tommy,  I  promised  to  write  you  how  things  were,  after 
we  got  settled  down.  I  must  say  the  outlook  is  rather  discourag 
ing  at  times  —  and  home  is  n't  what  it  was  as  you  remember  it! 
Do  you  remember  what  fun  we  used  to  have  even  in  Hunter's  Run 

—  driving  in  to  "the  balls"  —  and  how  fine  it  was  in  Mitchellton 
as  long  as  you  were  there?  Well,  everything  is  sadly  changed  now! 
Wallie,  I  'm  afraid,  has  n't  improved  as  he  gets  older,  he  seems  to 
rarely  or  never  think  of  anybody  but  himself  —  and,  of  course, 
having  fun  is  simply  something  he  does  n't  care  for!  He  shuts  him 
self  up  in  his  room  every  night,  making  horrible  mixtures  in  a 
"sink"  he's  put  in  —  that  smell  up  the  whole  house,  and  never 
dreams  of  contributing  to  the  housekeeping  expenses  —  though 
he's  been  raised  now  to  ten  dollars  a  week!  Father  is  sadly  changed, 
he  gets  quieter  and  quieter  all  the  time. 

Sometimes  I'm  really  worried  about  him,  he's  so  indifferent! 
He  never  jokes  any  more,  and  does  n't  try  to  get  any  patients, 
though  I  know  he  could  get  lots  with  his  reputation.  He  seems 
despondent,  Tommy,  and  sometimes  does  n't  even  come  in  for  his 
office-hour  —  and  the  other  day  he  lost  a  patient  that  way  that 
the  Finchmans  sent,  she  waited  half  an  hour  and  then  went!  But 
though  he  may  have  liked  the  country  life  better;  and  let  us  all 
vegetate;  that  can't  be  it  —  for  he  certainly  made  no  objection  when 
the  family  consensus  seemed  to  be  that  we  should  move  here!  Of 
course,  we  have  to  face  the  fact  that  he  and  mother  are  n't  very  con 
genial,  it  is  her  problem,  and  while  I  would  n't  criticize  mother  for 
worlds  and  she  certainly  does  her  duty  as  wife  and  mother  —  I  do 
think  it 's  a  great  mistake  for  her  to  always  make  her  attitude  a  sort 
of  reproach,  saying  how  "she's  sacrificed  herself  to  him"  and  all 

—  you  know  what  I  mean  — 

Mother  really  gets  along  better  than  any  of  us  —  especially  as 
I  now  do  all  the  work  of  the  entire  house! 

157 


Angela's    Business 


The  young  writer  paused,  staring  chillily  at  the  register. 
She  rarely  looked  out  the  window  now,  hers  being  the  blank 
certainty  that  there  would  be  nothing  to  see.  Moreover,  it  was 
dusk.  So,  rising  presently,  she  lighted  the  gas,  and  resumed 
her  sad  sisterly  letter. 

Of  her  mother  she  wrote  in  some  detail:  of  the  various 
friends  of  her  girlhood  she  had  renewed  acquaintance  with, 
and  how  she  was  always  exchanging  calls  with  Cousin  This 
or  Martha  That,  who  was  So-and-So  before  she  married.  To 
Angela,  it  had  really  seemed  funny  how  all  these  connections 
of  her  mother's,  whose  social  possibilities  they  had  so  often 
discussed  before  they  left  Mitchellton,  had  resolved  them 
selves  into  dejected  old  ladies  who  had  had  unhappy  marriages, 
and  whose  children  had  also  had  unhappy  marriages,  as  a  rule, 
or  were  in  some  other  way  unavailable  as  friends.  Out  of  five 
families  thus  exhumed  by  Mrs.  Flower,  positively  only  one 
unattached  young  person  had  emerged,  and  this  one,  named 
Jennie  Finchman  (!),  while  certainly  well-meaning,  was  a 
shy,  anxious,  painfully  homely  little  thing  who  had  never  had 
a  good  time  in  her  life,  and  gave  all  her  pocket-money  to  a 
mission  in  the  Dutch  East  Indies. 

Well,  Tommy  [continued  Angela],  I've  tried  to  give  you  a  pic 
ture  of  the  new  home  like  I  promised  —  and  I  only  wish  it  was  more 
encouraging!  As  for  myself  —  the  only  outside  person  I  had  to 
help  me  was  Cousin  Mary  Wing,  and  she  is  a  "New  Woman,"  as  I 
wrote  you  in  my  Thanksgiving  Day  letter,  and  does  n't  go  with  any 
body  but  advanced  older  people!  —  and,  besides,  she  got  into  a  ter 
rible  scrape,  poor  dear,  and  was  dismissed  from  the  school!  Cousin 
Mary,  it's  only  fair  to  say,  has  done  more  for  me  than  anybody 
else,  introducing  me  to  her  older  woman  friends  —  who  have  called 
on  me,  and  several  have  invited  me  to  teas,  lectures,  and  etc. !  But, 
of  course,  none  of  them  were  social  people  really,  or  at  least  of  the 
younger  set  —  and  I  practically  have  n't  been  invited  to  a  single 
party,  except  "dove  ones"!  The  one  exception  was  a  meeting  of 

158 


Angela's    Business 


an  "advanced  club,"  where  I  met  several  attractive  men,  who  have 
been  as  nice  to  me  as  you  could  possibly  expect. 

But  the  truth  is,  Tommy,  money  counts  a  great  deal  more  here 
than  it  did  in  Mitchellton;  all  the  girls  who  are  prominent  socially 
have  wealthy  families  behind  them!  I  think  I  would  hold  up  the 
family  end  quite  well  on  very  little  —  but  I  have  hardly  a  decent 
"rag  to  my  back,"  my  clothes  let  everybody  know  I  am  a  person  of 
no  importance,  so  the  little  inner  circle  sees  no  reason  to  take  me 
up,  —  mother  and  I  have  figured  that  with  only  fifty  dollars  I  could 
get  a  really  nice  new  suit,  and  a  simple  evening  dress  as  well,  — 
and  perhaps  hat  and  shoes,  all  of  which  I  sorely  need!  But,  of  course, 
poor  father  simply  has  n't  got  such  a  sum,  and  Wallie  puts  all  his  in 
the  bank  —  for  college  next  year,  he  has  $240  there  now!  Tommy, 
you  know  I  don't  mean  to  accuse  the  family  of  being  selfish,  — 
father  told  us  in  advance  that  we  would  be  poorer  here,  —  but 
besides  that  —  nobody  in  the  family  but  you  ever  seemed  to 
understand  that  a  girl  can't  accomplish  anything  unless  she  is  given 
some  sort  of  a  chance.  Even  mother  does  n't  understand,  she  just 
thinks  "things  happen" !  She  is  always  telling  how  in  her  day  men 
would  work  hard  all  day  "superintending  the  farms"  —  and 
then  at  night  ride  twenty  miles  on  horseback,  to  just  talk  for  an 
hour  to  some  girl  of  no  special  attractions!  I  can't  make  her  see  that 
men  simply  are  n't  like  that  any  more. 

The  concluding  paragraph  of  the  letter  merely  described 
the  writer's  own  daily  round,  especially  touching  on  the  dull 
walks,  so  rarely  broken  by  a  familiar  face,  which  remained 
almost  her  only  form  of  recreation.  Here  Angela  decided  to 
put  in  one  sentence  in  a  less  reserved  vein,  which  she  did: 
"Well,  Tommy,  if  you  mean  to  make  any  thank-offerings  to 
1  the  poor '  this  Christmas,  you  know  where  they  will  be  most 
appreciated!'1  But,  as  she  loved  her  brother  devotedly,  it  was 
also  natural  for  her  to  return  to  a  sweet  and  generous  note  in 
farewell:  "For  your  sake,  Tommy,  I  am  glad  you  aren't 
here,  with  all  the  trials  and  hardships,  but  out  in  the  world 
having  a  happy  life  of  your  own!" 

The  completion,  stamping,  and  sending-off  of  the  letter  to 


Angela's    Business 


Tommy  left  Angela  with  a  sense  of  definite  accomplishment. 
It  was  as  if  something  pleasant  had  happened  in  the  family 
at  last,  or  at  least  was  going  to  happen  very  soon.  Unfortu 
nately,  however,  this  agreeable  feeling,  having  such  small 
relation  to  reality,  was  born  but  to  sicken  and  die.  Time 
proceeded  with  no  pleasanter  happenings  than  before,  and  a 
letter  from  Daniel  Jenney ,  of  Mitchell  ton  —  whose  ring  had 
caused  the  trouble  —  became  a  positive  event. 

By  now,  no  doubt,  the  first  natural  excitement  of  "going 
to  the  city"  to  live  had  subsided.  Enthusiastic  anticipations 
had  been  rubbed  bare  by  hard  actuality,  poverty,  Finchmans, 
and  so  on.  By  this  time  also  the  young  home-maker  had  sys 
tematized  her  housekeeping,  as  she  herself  said,  and  commonly 
ordered  from  butcher  and  grocer  by  means  of  Mrs.  Doremus's 
telephone,  three  doors  away.  With  experience,  too,  Angela 
had  cut  down  the  daily  area  of  cleaning  and  polishing,  from  her 
first  youthful  excesses.  Small  incentive  there  was  to  rub  your 
fingers  to  the  bone  on  a  house  which  was  hopeless  from  the 
start,  and  which  practically  nobody  but  her  mother!s  sad 
friends  ever  set  foot  in.  Thus  —  and  also  through  the  all  but 
eccentric  indifference  of  the  men  of  her  family  to  beauty  and 
charm  —  Angela  had  more  time  than  ever  for  thinking.  And 
the  more  she  thought,  the  more  clearly  she  saw  that  social 
progress  in  a  strange  city  was  solely  a  matter  of  what  might 
be  called  favorable  self-advertisement,  and  that  this  sort  of 
advertisement,  in  her  case  at  least,  was  solely  a  matter  of  just 
a  little  money. 

But  where  was  money  to  come  from?  Little  could  be  ex 
pected  from  Tommy,  even  at  the  best.  As  for  the  housekeep 
ing  allowance  (on  which  home-makers  properly  rely  for  some 
personal  "pickings"),  that  held  out,  alas,  yet  frailer  hopes. 
So  closely  had  her  father  and  mother  calculated  the  budget, 

160 


Angela's    Business 


indeed,  that  in  three  months  she  had  squeezed  but  five  dollars 
and  a  half  out  of  it:  this,  though  she  had  early  investigated 
the  cheaper  cuts  of  meat  and  learned  the  desirability  of  never 
paying  cash. 

"Oh,"  thought  the  girl,  again  and  again,  —  "if  fathered 
only  get  some  patients!" 

Mary  Wing's  pretty  sitting-room  had,  indeed,  established 
definitely  in  Angela's  mind  the  close  connection  between 
money  and  work  in  an  office.  But,  for  the  sound  reasons  ex 
plained  by  her  to  Cousin  Mary,  Angela  could  never  consider 
work  in  an  office  as  a  possibility  for  herself.  What,  really, 
would  become  of  the  Home,  while  she  went  rushing  daily  to  an 
office,  to  make  money  for  her  personal  adornment?  Besides, 
she  could  not  but  see  that  Cousin  Mary  was  herself  proof 
of  the  fact  that  going  to  an  office  had  a  very  unfortunate  effect 
upon  a  girl.  Argue  as  you  liked,  the  fact  remained  that,  even 
in  this  so-called  advanced  age,  the  normal,  sweet,  attrac 
tive  girls,  the  girls  who  were  prominent  socially,  were  never 
office-girls. 

In  short,  how  to  get  money  without  working  for  it?  That, 
truly,  was  the  great  question  confronting  every  nice  girl, 
every  womanly  woman.  .  .  . 

To  Angela,  it  gradually  came  to  seem  that  nothing  pleasant 
was  ever  to  happen  to  her  again.  Not  only  that,  but  the  pleas- 
antest  sort  of  things  seemed  to  be  happening  all  the  time  to 
everybody  else. 

Returning  Mary  Wing's  call  one  day,  in  the  hope  of  news 
(Cousin  Mary's  disgrace  was  being  generously  forgiven,  now 
that  the  Badwoman  had  gone  away),  Angela  picked  up  two 
items  that  depressed  her  curiously.  One  was  that  Donald 
Manford  had  got  that  position  he  was  trying  for  in  Wyoming: 
that  meant  that  one  member  of  the  coterie  would  vanish  for 

161 


Angela's    Business 


good  within  three  months'  time.  The  other  item  concerned 
a  remarkable  series  of  articles  about  Cousin  Mary  that  were 
coming  out  in  the  magazines  all  of  a  sudden,  and  which  Cousin 
Mary  said  were  written  by  Mr.  Garrott,  though  admitting 
that  his  name  was  n't  signed  to  them.  The  Finchmans,  whom 
Angela  had  met  on  the  street,  said,  "  How  do  you  like  having 
a  celebrity  for  a  cousin?  "  Cousin  Mary,  for  her  part,  seemed  to 
like  being  a  celebrity  immensely.  Angela  had  never  seen  her  in 
such  high  spirits;  it  really  seemed  in  bad  taste,  considering  the 
recent  past.  And,  of  course,  Angela  wondered  a  little  if  Mr. 
Garrott,  the  departed,  wouldn't  have  written  something 
about  her,  too,  but  for  the  misunderstanding. 

A  chance  meeting  with  Mr.  Tilletts,  on  the  way  home  from 
this  visit,  hardly  helped  much.  The  seeking  widower,  afoot  for 
once,  had  seemed  hurried;  he  merely  paused  for  a  hasty  word 
or  two,  and  then  was  on  his  way  again. 

"Considering  I  haven't  a  soul  to  help  me,  I  think  I've 
done  remarkably  well,"  the  girl  protested  once  more,  as  if 
answering  an  inner  voice,  to  her  mother  next  day.  "We've 
been  here  only  a  little  while,  and  I  have  three  men-friends 
already." 

"Who  is  the  third?"  inquired  Mrs.  Flower. 

When  Angela  mentioned  Mr.  Tilletts,  her  mother  said, 
laconically:  "He  has  never  called." 

"Men  don't  call  any  more,  mother,  I've  said  again  and 
again!  It's  practically  gone  out." 

Not  feeling  very  well  to-day,  she  lay  in  an  old  wrapper 
atop  the  sway-backed  bed.  Mrs.  Flower  sat,  for  company, 
by  the  outlooking  window,  dutifully  stitching  at  a  frilly 
"waist"  which  Angela  had  begun,  but  not  finished.  But  her 
mother  was  a  beautiful  seamstress  and  really  enjoyed  an  oc 
casional  task. 

162 


Angela's    Business 


"Besides,"  said  Angela,  listlessly  making  a  dimple  in  her 
pretty  cheek  with  the  end  of  a  bone-handled  button-hook, 
"I  think  Mr.  Tilletts  will  call.  He  specially  asked  to  —  only 
a  little  while  ago." 

Mrs.  Flower,  after  a  speaking  silence,  observed:  "Donald 
Manford  never  sent  you  the  post-card  from  Wyoming." 

"Well  —  all  the  time  in  the  world  hasn't  passed  yet, 
mother!" 

"Your  Cousin  Ellie  Finchman  says  he  is  deeply  interested 
in  this  Miss  Carson.  She  hears  he  has  made  her  an  offer." 

"How  could  Mrs.  Finchman  possibly  know  that,  mother? 
Besides,  I  don't  care!  I  like  Mr.  Tilletts  better  than  Mr. 
Manford!" 

Coming  to  bloom  in  the  age  of  Chivalry,  Angela's  mother 
had  enjoyed  a  great  deal  of  "attention"  before  she  decided 
to  bestow  herself  upon  the  worthy  Doctor.  Hence  it  was  con 
stitutional  with  her  to  take  a  belittling  position  toward  less 
successful  young  women,  including  even  her  own  daughter. 
Equally  natural  was  it  for  Angela,  with  no  such  opportuni 
ties  as  her  mother  had  had,  to  hold  fast  to  what  successes  she 
had,  and  even,  it  may  be,  for  memory  to  magnify  them  some 
what.  And  yet,  in  the  freemasonry  of  women,  she  never  re 
sented  her  mother's  coolly  judicial  summaries,  and  in  this  case, 
frankly  felt  the  maternal  slap  to  be  justified.  Really,  Mr.  Man- 
ford  had  never  paid  her  any  direct  attentions,  which  perhaps 
had  something  or  other  to  do  with  her  admiring  him  so  little 
as  yet. 

On  this  day,  the  lonely  young  girl's  spirits  seemed  to  touch 
their  nadir.  How  could  anything  pleasant  happen?  There  was 
no  imaginable  way. 

"Oh,  mother!"  she  exclaimed,  with  an  exasperation  rare 
to  her.  "Why,  why,  couldn't  you  and  father  give  us  one 

163 


Angela  Js     Business 


relation  that  would  help  us?  Did  you  ever  hear  of  any  poor 
people  before  that  did  n't  have  a  single  rich  relation?" 

Then  she  cried  out:  "Oh,  please  don't  mention  Mrs.  Ash- 
burton!" 

It  was  surely  the  most  natural,  reasonable,  and  human  com 
plaint  in  the  world.  In  family  talk,  it  had  an  established  stand 
ing,  too,  having  first  been  formulated  far  back  at  Hunter's 
Run.  But  now  it  was  as  if  Angela  had  flung  her  challenge  in 
the  teeth  of  fate  once  of tener  than  fate  could  stand. 

On  the  very  next  day,  in  brief,  the  fairy  godmother  came 
rolling  up  to  the  door. 

We  read  how  it  is  always  darkest  just  before  the  dawn.  An 
gela,  who  knew  that  pleasant  things  rarely  just  happened,  in 
doors,  had  gone  out,  so  it  was  that  she  missed  the  direct  dis 
tribution  of  gifts.  But,  as  it  chanced,  she  had  been  having  her 
first  really  good  time,  since  the  earlier  part  of  the  bridge-party. 
In  fact,  on  Washington  Street,  at  about  the  same  time  and 
place,  she  had  met  Mr.  Tilletts  again;  and  now  he  was  not 
hurried  at  all.  It  pleasantly  developed  that  Mr.  Tilletts's 
doctor  had  ordered  him  to  stop  riding  around  in  his  great 
car,  and  that  henceforth  he  would  be  walking  constantly. 
Moreover,  the  genial  gallant,  after  a  considerable  promenade, 
had  taken  Angela  to  tea  at  Mrs.  Hasseltine's  famous  shop, 
and,  at  parting  —  sure  enough  —  made  a  provisional  engage 
ment  to  call  "one  evening  this  week."  Altogether,  the  coterie 
seemed  in  a  fair  way  to  pick  up  a  new  member,  after  all. 

Whether  fascinating  or  overplump,  Widower  Tilletts  un 
questionably  possessed  the  magic  power,  wielded  by  man 
alone,  to  restore  the  self-esteem  of  a  neglected  young  girl. 
Angela  opened  the  front  door  of  home  in  a  livelier  humor 
than  had  been  hers  for  weeks.  And  so  entering,  she  found 
her  mother  standing  in  the  hall,  and  heard  at  once  tidings 

164 


Angela's    Business 


which,  though  not  for  her  exactly,  yet  made  her  forget  herself 
altogether. 

Mrs.  Ashburton  had  been,  and  gone.  Mrs.  Ashburton 
was  going  to  send  Wallie  to  college,  at  once.  Mrs.  Ashburton 
was  going  to  give  Wallie  five  hundred  dollars  a  year,  till  he  had 
got  his  education. 

This  oft-cited  lady,  at  last  the  waver  of  the  magic  wand, 
was  Mrs.  Flower's  first  cousin.  Close  friends  in  their  girlhood, 
their  ways  had  long  ago  parted;  and,  since  Dr.  and  Mrs. 
Flower's  visit  to  New  York  in  1896,  amenities  between  them 
had  hardly  gone  beyond  an  exchange  of  cards  at  Christmas. 
But  now  it  happened  that  Mrs.  Ashburton,  en  route  to  a 
balmier  clime  than  hers,  had  "broken  her  trip"  here,  after 
the  frequent  way  of  tourists,  and,  having  duly  viewed  the 
sights  of  the  city  from  a  cab  window  through  the  morning,  had 
bethought  her  to  look  up  her  resident  kin.  So  the  rich  relation 
came  to  the  little  house  on  Center  Street. 

By  chance,  it  was  Saturday  afternoon,  and  Wallie  was  alone 
in  the  house.  It  seemed  that  an  experiment  he  had  been  work 
ing  on  for  days  had  just  turned  out  a  failure,  and  he  had 
opened  all  the  windows  and  the  front  door  by  way  of  letting 
out  the  smell.  But  even  then  he  did  not  see  the  lady  standing 
on  the  steps,  so  intent  was  he  on  the  large  glass  retort  in  his 
hand.  His  face  was  quite  white,  and  beaded  with  perspiration. 
So  Mrs.  Ashburton  had  described  it  to  Mrs.  Flower,  who  came 
in  to  find  her  just  leaving  for  hotel  and  train.  She  had  asked: 
"What  are  you  looking  at  that  brown  liquid  so  hard  for?" 
"That's  it;  it's  brown,"  Wallie  had  muttered,  still  without 
looking  at  her.  "  You  mean  it  ought  to  have  turned  out  white?  " 
said  she.  "No,  green,"  said  Wallie,  frowning  and  squinting. 
"  Where  'd  the  chlorine  go  to?  "  "  Why  do  you  care  so  much?  " 
Mrs.  Ashburton  asked,  more  and  more  interested.  "Why  do 

165 


Angela's    Business 


I  care?"  he  said,  scornfully;  and  then,  as  if  becoming  conscious 
of  her,  personally,  for  the  first  time,  he  turned  his  spectacles 
on  her  and  said  calmly:  "You  wouldn't  understand, ma'am. 
A  —  a  problem  here  .  .  .  Well,  I  don't  understand  it  myself." 
And  then,  losing  her  again,  as  it  were,  he  actually  endeavored 
to  shut  the  door,  with  the  lady  outside.  Mrs.  Ashburton  had 
had  to  push  against  it,  she  said,  and  put  her  foot  in  the  crack, 
to  attract  his  notice.  "I'm  your  cousin  —  your  cousin!  — 
Mrs.  Ashburton!"  she  cried.  "And  I  want  to  come  in  and 
talk  to  you,  please."  And  this  she  had  done,  with  the  amazing 
result  mentioned  above. 

Angela  felt  that  the  family  tide  had  turned  at  last.  She 
would  scarcely  have  been  human  if  it  had  not  occurred  to  her 
how  easily  she  might  have  been  the  one  to  be  struck  by  the 
golden  lightning;  but  such  passing  notions  in  no  sense  marred 
her  sincere,  though  vicarious,  joy  over  this  great  news.  More 
over,  it  did  seem,  of  course,  that  such  a  sum  as  five  hundred 
dollars  could  not  percolate  into  a  family  at  any  point  without 
raising  the  whole  level  of  prosperity  very  appreciably;  and  it 
was  with  whole-hearted  happiness  that  she  skipped  upstairs 
to  congratulate  her  lucky  brother  in  the  little  bedroom  she 
would  not  have  to  clean  or  "make"  any  more. 

"  Something  very  nice  is  going  to  happen  to  me  soon,  too ! " 
she  thought  gayly,  as  she  undressed  that  night.  "I  feel  it  in 
my  bones!" 

Her  mind  naturally  slanted  toward  her  favorite  brother, 
with  an  intuitive  increase  of  hopefulness.  And,  true  enough, 
it  was  from  generous  Tommy  that  the  more  personal  blessings 
presently  came,  though  in  a  form  that  had  not  entered  An 
gela's  dreams. 

Tommy's  reply  to  her  sisterly  letter  promised  at  first, 
indeed,  to  be  as  disappointing  as  Mr.  Garrott's  had  been, 

166 


Angela's    Business 


and  for  the  same  reason:  it  omitted  the  essential  thing. 
Angela,  having  shaken  the  letter,  and  then  shuffled  the  pages, 
early  discovered  that  there  was  no  thank-offering  in  it. 
Similarly,  Tommy's  sentences  seemed  to  contain  nothing  more 
substantial  than  affectionate  regrets:  setting  forth  what  a 
struggle  he  had  trying  to  keep  up  with  the  set  that  Nina  had  al 
ways  moved  in;  how  he  was  five  thousand  dollars  in  debt  now, 
getting  deeper,  and  never  had  a  nickel  to  jingle  for  himself,  and 
that  was  the  God's  truth;  how  it  had  always  been  his  dream  to- 
do  something  big  for  his  sister,  and  certainly  would  do  the 
same  when  old  Mottesheard  (Nina's  father)  died;  how  the  old 
chap  hung  on  in  a  way  you  would  n't  believe.  .  .  . 

Angela  read  with  a  certain  sense  of  chill.  Truly  womanly, 
she,  of  course,  never  questioned  the  superior  claims  of  wives. 
And  yet  it  did  seem  a  little  hard  that  Tommy  (who  made  a 
large  salary  as  a  bond  salesman,  or  something  like  that)  should 
lavish  everything  on  a  girl  he  had  never  heard  of  three  years 
ago,  while  she,  his  own  sister  — 

And  then,  turning  into  the  fourth  page,  she  came  on  a  pas 
sage  which  checked  all  minor-key  reflections  instantly.  In 
their  place,  rose  and  grew  a  startled  astonishment.  Tommy, 
noting  what  she  had  written  about  her  long,  dull  walks,  was 
offering  to  give  her  an  automobile. 

At  first,  Angela  simply  could  not  take  in  this  offer  as  a 
solid  reality.  It  sprang  upon  her  like  some  wild,  exciting  joke. 
She  read,  with  her  breath  coming  faster  and  faster,  and  her 
soft  eyes  as  big  as  saucers:  — 

Now,  Sis,  I  know  a  car  may  strike  you  offhand  as  a  good  deal 
of  an  undertaking  for  a  poor  family,  but  you  'd  find  it  would  n't 
prove  so  at  all.  The  car  I  have  in  mind  for  you  is  a  little  simple 
one,  that  you  could  easily  run  and  manage  yourself.  A  man  from 
the  nearest  garage  will  teach  you  how  to  drive  it  in  an  hour.  There  'd 
be  no  upkeep  at  all,  with  the  easy  city  use  you'd  give  it — practi- 

167 


Angela's    Business 


cally  no  expense  of  any  kind  but  gasoline.  The  little  car  is  old,  of 
course,  but  still  sound  as  a  trivet,  and  it  '11  run  till  you  would  n't 
believe  it  on  a  gallon  or  so  of  juice.  .  .  . 

For  a  space  the  letter  faded  from  the  young  girl's  vision. 
Before  her  mind's  eye  flashed  a  series  of  entrancing  pictures: 
pictures  of  herself,  no  longer  the  lone,  slow  pedestrian  in  a  too 
large  city.  .  .  . 

And  don't  think  you  would  be  depriving  us  [Tommy  went  on]. 
Nina  will  have  a  new  car  every  year,  and  we  Ve  really  had  no  use 
for  this  one  for  some  time.  By  the  by,  did  n't  you  tell  me  there  was 
an  old  barn  in  your  back-yard,  or  an  alley?  Why  would  n't  that 
do  for  your  garage?  Then  you  would  have  your  car  ready  at  hand, 
without  storage  cost,  and  could  take  it  out  at  a  moment's  notice 
and  go  for  a  spin  with  your  friends. 

Now  think  it  over,  Sis,  and  let  me  know  if  you  want  it.  I  can 
ship  it  at  once,  by  prepaid  express.  Nina  has  a  frank.  .  .  . 

"Oh,  mother!"  cried  Angela  excitedly.  "Tommy  wants 
to  give  me  an  automobile!" 

The  heads  of  the  Flowers  lifted  from  their  breakfasts  as  if 
jerked  by  a  common  string. 

When  the  breath-taking  letter  had  been  read  again,  aloud 
this  time,  there  followed  a  family  symposium,  the  question 
being  whether  or  not  Angela  could  have  the  automobile.  To 
her  surprise  and  delight,  it  appeared  that  there  was  really  no 
question;  all  the  family  wanted  her  to  take  the  automobile; 
all  agreed  with  Tommy  that  it  would  not  be  a  prohibitive 
undertaking.  Mrs.  Flower,  an  habitual  conservative,  pointed 
out  that  there  would  be  nothing  to  lose  in  any  case:  if  having 
the  automobile  proved  impracticable,  Angela  could  simply 
sell  it.  Wallie  said  that,  if  the  automobile  came  before  he  left 
for  college,  he  would  teach  Angela  how  to  run  it  himself,  thus 
eliminating  the  expense  of  a  man  from  the  garage.  And, 
finally,  her  father  astonished  her  by  saying  that  he  would 

168 


Angela's    Business 

find  the  necessary  funds  —  estimated  at  ten  dollars  —  for 
repairing  the  abandoned  shed,  which  now  leaked  dangerously, 
into  a  serviceable  little  garage. 

At  nine-thirty  o'clock  that  morning  Angela  rushed  out  of 
the  house  to  the  nearest  telegraph  office,  to  dispatch  her 
happy  reply.  Excited  though  she  was,  however,  she  did  not 
forget  to  count  the  words:  — 

Crazy       about       it  Tommy.  Arrangements       made. 

What        kind         is          car? 

A.  F. 

Tommy's  response  came  at  bedtime  :  — 

Car    started          to  you  this        afternoon.          It 

is  a         Fordette.        Happy        New       Year. 

TOMMY. 

The  night  before  Wallie  started  North  for  college  Angela 
went  to  him  in  his  little  bed-and-workroom  and  asked  the 
temporary  loan  of  seventy-five  dollars.  In  the  interval,  she 
had  learned  that  her  father  had  a  patient;  it  seemed,  indeed, 
that  he  had  had  her  for  some  time,  only  she  was  not  an  office 
patient,  so  nobody  had  known  about  her.  Also,  Angela  anti 
cipated  that  the  housekeeping  allowance  would  prove  rather 
more  squeezable  now,  with  Wallie  gone.  Still,  one  cannot  pass 
into  the  motor-car  classes  on  a  shoestring,  of  course;  and 
Wallie,  with  his  prodigal  allowance  and  his  handsome  store 
in  the  bank,  now  literally  rolled  in  wealth. 

Brilliant  prosperity,  however,  did  not  seem  to  have  im 
proved  her  little  brother's  character;  he  proved  to  be  as  re 
luctant  as  ever  to  "part."  After  a  good  deal  of  unworthy  hag 
gling,  he  agreed  to  lend  Angela  but  fifty  dollars,  and  actually 
entered  the  amount  in  a  ridiculous  little  black  book  he  kept 
for  such  things. 

169 


Angela's    Business 


The  joke  of  it  was  that  fifty  dollars  was  really  more  than 
Angela  had  expected.  She  went  out  from  the  interview  well 
pleased.  Her  resolve  was  to  spend  thirty  dollars  of  Wallie's 
loan  on  a  new  suit,  and  keep  all  the  rest  for  gasoline. 


XIII 

THEY  had  all  cautioned  her,  her  father,  her  brother, 
the  nice  man  who  sold  the  gasoline,  to  pick  the  quiet 
est  streets,  and  to  go  very  slowly.  So,  from  the  alley- 
mouth,  her  safe  progress  had  been  by  Gresham  Street  straight 
to  peaceful  Mason,  where  the  traffic  was  so  reassuringly  light; 
and  now,  as  she  rolled  securely  out  Mason  Street,  there  began 
to  dawn  within  her  a  first  shy  confidence.  She  went  as  slowly 
as  her  well-wishers  had  meant,  at  least;  prudently  close  to 
the  known  haven  of  the  sidewalk  she  kept  at  all  times;  now 
and  then  she  stopped  short,  just  to  see  if  she  could,  and  al 
ways  she  could.  Through  all,  was  the  indescribable  thrill  of 
really  doing  it  for  herself  now ;  lingering  incredulity  but  gave 
a  sharper  savor  to  delight.  And  she  was  continually  excited 
with  the  consciousness  of  large  new  possibilities  here,  of  per 
sonal  power  in  quite  a  new  dimension. 

It  was  possible  to  go  on  indefinitely  out  Mason  Street,  but 
at  Olive  (always  a  quiet  thoroughfare)  she  was  seized  with  a 
sudden  adventurousness.  She  decided  to  turn  up  Olive,  in 
short;  not  meaning  to  stop  at  the  Wings',  of  course,  but  just 
thinking  that  if  the  Wings  were  looking  out  the  window  as  she 
went  by,  it  would  be  quite  a  pleasant  thing.  The  enterprise, 
once  conceived,  was  carried  out  with  perfect  technical  suc 
cess;  but  at  the  moment  of  passing  the  Wings',  unluckily,  an 
enormous  ice-wagon  came  lumbering  close  by,  riveting  her 
attention,  leaving  her  not  so  much  as  an  eyelid  to  wink  toward 
people's  windows.  Hence,  she  never  knew  whether  the  Wings 
were  looking  out  or  not.  But  her  confidence  waxed.  At 

171 


Angela's    Business 


Center  Street  the  rumble  of  a  street-car  warned  her  to  stop 
a  moment  —  just  in  time,  too,  for  the  car  was  hardly  two 
blocks  away  —  and  when  the  car  had  passed,  what  must  she 
do  but  roll  boldly  across  the  tracks  and  into  the  altogether 
unexplored  regions  beyond! 

What  prompted  her  to  do  this?  Of  course,  the  natural  thing 
was  to  turn  down  Center  Street  a  block  and  get  straight  back 
to  quiet  Mason,  which  had  been  duly  tried  and  not  found 
wanting.  Afterward,  she  remembered  distinctly  that  she  had 
been  on  the  point  of  doing  just  that.  Was  it  the  new  adven- 
turousness  that  beckoned  her  on,  instead?  Was  it  something 
yet  subtler  and  more  mysterious?  At  any  rate,  here  she  was 
pushing  into  a  quarter  of  the  city  where  she  had  never  set 
foot  in  her  life,  where,  in  all  human  probability,  her  foot  alone 
would  never  have  brought  her.  And  lo,  she  had  not  gone  a 
block  into  the  undiscovered  country  when  a  wonder  befell, 
and  with  a  little  jump,  all  but  a  little  cry,  she,  saw  the  lost 
member  of  her  coterie  rise  suddenly  before  her. 

He  had  come  round  the  unknown  corner  just  ahead,  and 
was  walking  straight  toward  her.  She  became  aware  of  the 
beating  of  her  heart.  All  this,  it  must  be  understood,  was  the 
very  first  time  that  Angela  had  taken  out  her  Fordette  alone. 

Mr.  Garrott  was  just  off  the  train.  Two  hours  in  a  day 
coach  might  have  cramped  his  long  legs;  there  might  have 
been  cinders  down  the  back  of  his  neck.  Nevertheless,  he 
advanced  with  an  unmistakably  lively  tread,  continually 
slapping  his  leg  with  a  folded  periodical  of  a  size  and  shape 
like  "Willcox's  Weekly." 

Nor  was  the  coterie  member's  presence  on  the  Wings'  street 
mere  blind  chance,  either.  Those  remarkable  articles  in  the 
magazines  about  Cousin  Mary,  which  had  but  popped  as  a 

172 


Angela's    Business 


rumor  into  one  of  Angela's  ears  and  out  the  other,  had  nat 
urally  occupied  a  somewhat  more  prominent  place  in  the 
thought  of  their  creator.  He  remained,  indeed,  dazzled  by  the 
completeness  of  the  write-ups'  triumph. 

Charles  had  stayed  in  the  country  four  days  longer  than  he 
had  intended.  And  in  his  extended  absence  his  whole  mine  of 
publicity  had  gone  off  with  a  brilliant  suddenness  that  had 
startled  him.  The  successful  sale  of  the  third  write-up  before 
he  left  town  had  assured  a  decisive  coup,  but  the  quick  action 
the  weeklies  had  given  him  went  beyond  all  reason.  He  had 
not  hoped  that  even  the  first  of  the  write-ups  could  see  print 
before  the  middle  of  the  month,  say;  on  the  contrary,  he  had 
discovered  the  last  and  best  of  them  —  the  one  signed  Charles 
King  Garrott —  on  the  train  just  now,  in  "Willcox's,"  for 
January  loth.  In  short,  in  the  space  of  a  Christmas  holiday 
he,  Charles,  had  spread  the  vindicating  feats  and  features  of 
his  "  demoted "  friend  to  the  four  corners  of  the  globe.  Liter 
ally  that,  for  did  not  the  combined  circulation  of  "Willcox's," 
the  "Saturday  Review,"  and  "Hervey's  National"  exceed 
two  million  copies  weekly  (this  on  the  word  of  the  circulation 
managers  themselves,  a  class  of  men  whose  consecration  to  the 
austerest  veracity  has  passed  into  proverb)  ?  Surely  there 
remained  few  literate  persons  in  the  world  to-day  who  could 
plausibly  pretend  that  they  had  never  heard  of  Mary 
Wing. 

And  Mary  (as  Angela  had  noted)  had  appreciated  these  ex 
traordinary  services  to  the  full.  The  letter  she  had  written 
him  in  the  country,  after  the  appearance  of  the  "Saturday 
Review"  article,  was  uniquely  grateful.  A  beautiful  letter 
Charles  had  thought  it;  he  had  it  in  his  inside  pocket  now. 
And  the  interesting  thought  it  had  raised  was  this:  If  his 
usually  independent  friend  could  be  as  grateful  as  that  for 

173 


Angela's    Business 


the  write-ups,  what  would  she  say  when  his  whole  plan 
worked  out,  and  his  Public  Opinion  had  overwhelmed  the 
School  Board  for  her?  Thus,  on  the  train,  after  reading 
"Willcox's"  piece  three  times,  and  now  as  he  strode  up  the 
quiet  back-street  from  the  station,  the  author  was  intently 
plotting  out  the  next,  or  practical,  stage  of  his  campaign,  still 
unsuspected  by  her:  the  stage  of  the  reprinting  of  the  write- 
ups  in  the  local  papers,  in  fine,  of  repeated  editorial  endorse 
ment  of  the  same,  of  the  outburst  of  letters  from  "Indignant 
Taxpayers,"  "High  School  Graduates,"  and  "Old  Subscrib 
ers" —  practically  all,  of  course,  written  by  Uncle  George 
Blenso  and  himself. 

His  thoughts  proved  increasingly  stimulating  to  the  home- 
come  Charles.  And  when  he  came  to  Olive  Street,  he  sud 
denly  bethought  him  to  turn  up  that  way;  not  expecting  to 
stop  at  the  Wings',  of  course  (for  he  had  an  engagement  to 
call  there  this  evening,  much  as  if  he  had  n't  been  a  modern 
at  all),  but  merely  thinking  that  if  he  should  happen  to  meet 
Mary  it  would  be  quite  a  pleasant  thing.  .  .  . 

Having  turned,  the  buoyant  young  man  presently  sent,  as 
it  were,  a  scouting  eye  on  ahead.  And  it  fell,  not  upon  the 
friend  he  had  made  famous  in  a  night,  but  upon  an  Object 
approaching. 

The  object  was  a  conveyance,  a  little  vehicle  of  the  self- 
propelling  type.  It  was  an  automobile,  clearly;  a  runabout, 
you  would  have  to  term  it,  though  certainly  of  a  pattern 
adopted  in  no  recent  year.  So  steep  and  bobbed  was  this  run 
about's  little  body,  so  quaintly  archaic  its  contour,  that  it 
stirred  in  the  beholder  dim  recollections  of  the  early  days  of 
the  horseless  age,  of  strange  pictures  seen  in  scientific  maga 
zines  back  in  the  nineties.  Very  slowly  the  little  vehicle  ap 
proached,  but  very  loudly,  too,  with  an  increasing  bias  toward 

174 


Angela's    Business 


the  sidewalk,  with  queer  rumblings  and  groanings,  with  the 
oddest  snorts. 

Charles's  puzzled  eye  lifted.  And  so  it  was  that  it  encoun 
tered  again  the  soft  gaze  that  he  had  last  seen  misted  in 
tears,  upon  a  sofa.  And  so  he  heard  the  pretty  voice,  that 
had  once  referred  to  him  as  a  brute,  saying:  — 

"How  do  you  do,  Mr.  Garrott!  .  .  .  I  —  I'm  very  glad  to 
see  you  back!" 

"Why  —  Miss  Flower  I'1 

Sheer  surprise  had  halted  him  in  his  tracks,  and  the  self- 
propelling  runabout,  which  had  been  almost  stationary  all 
along,  became  entirely  so,  right  at  the  curb. 

"When  did  you  get  home?"  Miss  Flower  was  finishing, 
laughing,  a  becoming  color  in  her  cheeks. 

"I'm  just  in  —  this  minute!  How  are  you?  I  —  ah  — 
did  n't  realize  at  all  that  it  was  you." 

He  had  taken  the  small  hand  she  offered,  momentarily 
flustered,  despite  all  effort,  by  the  utterly  sudden  remeeting. 
He  was  aware  that  the  girl  looked  a  little  conscious,  too.  But 
something  in  her  gaze  seemed  to  be  trying  to  tell  him  that  by 
gones  were  bygones  now;  and  she  went  on  with  reassuring 
naturalness:  — 

"I  hope  you  had  a  nice  holiday?  I've  wanted  very  much 
to  see  you,  and  thank  you  myself.  About  Wallie,  I  mean  — 
your  offering  to  teach  him  — " 

"Oh!  —  Why,  that!" 

"It  was  really  the  nicest  thing.  I  —  have  n't  seen  you  since, 
but  you  don't  know  how  much  I  —  we  all  appreciated  — " 

With  recovered  poise  the  young  man  easily  brushed  aside 
these  thanks.  "But  I'm  awfully  glad,"  he  added,  "that  he 
did  n't  wait  for  me,  after  all." 

"  Oh ! "  she  exclaimed.  "  You  heard,  then?  " 

175 


Angela's    Business 


He  mentioned  his  letter  from  Mary  Wing,  causing  her  to 
say,  "Oh,"  again.  —  "  Was  n't  it  wonderful!  I  knew  you'd 
be  interested  ..." 

She  was  prettier  than  he  remembered  —  or  was  it  merely 
that  the  new  hat  (trimmed  but  yesterday)  was  more  becom 
ing  than  the  old?  —  and  her  gaze,  though  not  reproachful  a 
bit,  had  for  him  a  quality  subtly  appealing.  Of  the  lives  and 
loneliness  of  young  womanly  women  —  of  that  forced  waiting 
which  dams  up  all  energies  unused,  and  hangs  the  spirit  to 
thrash  about  in  a  void,  working  over  each  small  event  to  a 
towering  importance  —  of  such  matters,  a  man,  even  Charles, 
the  authority,  knew  only  through  the  powers  of  his  imagina 
tion.  Charles  did  observe,  however,  that  this  girl  seemed  very 
glad  to  see  him.  And  he  felt  that  he  now  reciprocated  these 
feelings. 

"But,"  said  he,  with  a  hypocritically  pleasant  look  at  the 
vehicle,  "Santa  Claus  seems  to  have  remembered  you,  too! 
This  is  something  new,  is  n't  it?  "  said  Charles,  though  feeling 
that  new  was  hardly  the  word. 

"Yes,  —  are  n't  you  surprised?  My  brother  in  Pittsburg 
gave  it  to  me.  I ' ve  just  learned  to  run  it !  It  was  so  exciting ! " 

And  then,  in  a  pretty,  hesitating  way,  she  said:  "Won't 
you  let  me  drive  you  —  home,  or  wherever  you  're  going? 
I  'd  like  to,  so  much.  I  —  want  so  to  tell  you  all  the  news." 

He  protested  that  he  could  not  think  of  using  Miss  Flower 
as  a  taxicab.  But  when  she  urged  it,  in  pleasing,  ingenuous 
sentences,  and  explained  that  she  was  out  only  to  drive  about 
anywhere,  for  practice,  it  did  not  occur  to  him  to  maintain 
the  churlish  negative.  And,  indeed,  this  was  exactly  what  he 
had  desired  from  the  moment  of  reading  her  perfect  note  last 
month  —  sweet  reconciliation  in  just  such  a  casual  way, 
admitting  or  entailing  next  to  nothing. 

176 


Angela's    Business 


So  the  returning  author  of  the  write-ups  was  to  be  seen 
carefully  squeezing  himself,  and  "  Willcox's,"  into  the  seat  of 
Tommy's  delightful  gift. 

"Let's  see  —  the  engine's  still  going  —  is  n't  it?"  said  she, 
rather  superfluously,  it  seemed,  in  view  of  the  uproar.  "  Then 
I  have  to  kick  that  and  push  this  over.  ..." 

As  the  girl  said,  so  she  did,  her  look  a  little  anxious,  her 
young  face  flushed  with  excitement.  And,  sure  enough,  the 
vehicle,  of  a  self-propelling  type,  suddenly  shook  itself  with 
a  few  loud  snorts,  and  jumped  forward  with  a  jar. 

"And  what  sort  of  car  is  this?"  resumed  Charles,  dissem 
bling  intense  curiosity  as  mere  sympathetic  interest. 

"It  is  a  Fordette,"  replied  Angela,  not  without  pride. 

As  they  wobbled  round  the  corner,  narrowly  missing  the 
sidewalk,  she  added  in  the  same  proud  manner:  "And  this  is 
my  very  first  drive  by  myself." 

The  taking  of  the  corner  (she  explained  that  she  could  not 
turn  round  alone  yet)  meant  that  he  was  not  going  to  pass  the 
Wings',  after  all;  but  Charles  hardly  noticed  that.  He  had 
himself  to  look  to,  in  his  somewhat  unusual  position.  How 
ever,  the  drive  to  the  Studio,  though  noisy,  was  very  short; 
her  completely  feminine  inefficience  as  a  driver,  their  snail's 
progress,  could  not  extend  it  over  many  minutes;  and  the 
whole  thing  proved  as  easy  and  reproachless  as  could  possibly 
have  been  wished.  Light  friendly  talk  was  the  note,  flowing 
without  embarrassment  now.  Angela  told  of  the  two  great 
happenings  in  her  family,  seeming  to  count  upon  his  interest, 
and  getting  it  genuinely  enough,  too.  He  was  glad,  sincerely, 
that  Luck  had  smiled  on  this  girl,  who  had  seemed  to  him  not 
to  be  having  much  of  a  chance.  But  she  was  not  one,  even  so, 
to  take  all  the  conversation  to  herself;  it  was  a  trait  that  he 
had  noted,  and  liked,  in  her  from  the  beginning. 

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"Mr.  Garrott,"  she  said,  at  the  first  little  pause,  "aren't 
you  going  to  have  some  stories  out  pretty  soon  now?  You 
know  you  told  me  you  were  writing  some  —  before  you  began 
your  book?" 

How  gladly  Mr.  Garrott  would  have  reported  a  little  luck, 
too!  But  no,  he  was  still  known  to  Tables  of  Contents  only  as 
the  author  of  write-ups.  Somewhat  ruefully,  he  explained  to 
Angela  his  position  about  the  editors;  namely,  that  the  sooner 
the  lot  of  them  came  under  the  eye  of  a  lunacy  commission, 
the  better  for  all  concerned. 

She  became  the  comforter:  "But  perhaps  they've  accepted 
some  of  your  stories  while  you  were  away  so  long!"  He,  how 
ever,  knew  that  there  was  nothing  in  that. 

"Well,  no  —  no.  You  see,  my  —  my  relative  who  lives 
with  me,  Judge  Blenso,  looks  after  my  mail  when  I'm  away. 
And  he's  been  sending  me  the  casualty  lists  from  time  to 
time." 

"But  that  story  I  liked  so  much  —  you  told  me  a  little 
about  it  one  day  —  about  Helena  and  her  husband,  don't 
you  remember,  who  went  off  to  the  desert  island  — " 

"Oh,  that?  That's  been  declined  —  yes,  declined  three 
times,  if  I  remember  rightly  — " 

"Really!  But  how  could  they!  I  should  think  they  would 
have  jumped  at  it!  Why,  I  thought  it  was  just  wonderful . . ." 

Her  instinct  for  supplying  charm  was  not  amiss,  it  seemed. 

"By  the  way,"  said  the  young  author  carelessly,  as  they 
curved  into  his  own  street,  "have  you  happened  to  see 
this?" 

And  he  not  only  showed  Angela  his  "Willcox's,"  with  the 
write-up  in  it,  but  bestowed  it  upon  her,  for  her  own.  It  de 
veloped  that  he  had  extra  copies  in  his  pocket. 

Angela  was  very  grateful  for  the  magazine.  Everything  was 

178 


Angela's    Business 


as  pleasant  and  friendly  as  possible.  And  at  parting,  she  said, 
with  only  the  slightest  return  of  self-consciousness:  — 

"This  has  been  a  very  short  drive,  Mr.  Garrott!  I  hope  we 
can  have  a  real  one  some  day  soon." 

To  that  the  young  man,  standing  on  the  sidewalk  before 
his  own  door,  replied  with  a  courteous  generalization.  Wari 
ness  was  reflexive  with  him,  so  to  say.  But  then,  as  he  looked 
at  the  soft  young  face,  he  seemed  to  become  suddenly  con 
scious  of  the  essential  caddishness  of  his  past  behavior,  and 
of  yet  another  feeling,  too,  less  coolly  judicial.  Had  not  the 
Kiss,  in  fact,  set  this  girl  somehow  apart  from  others,  remain 
ing  as  a  subtle  bond  after  all? 

Pressing  her  slender  hand,  he  added:  "Meanwhile,  I've 
enjoyed  this  one  very  much!  You've  been  —  extremely  good 
to  me." 

"Willcox's"  had  given  Mary  the  Freewoman  a  fine  spread. 
The  write-up  occupied  all  of  one  of  its  large  pages,  with  three 
paragraphs  "Continued  on  Page  49,"  among  the  Men's 
Ready  to  Wear  Clothing.  Out  of  the  middle  of  the  text,  the 
best  of  the  portraits  supplied  by  Fanny  Warder  gazed  back 
steadily  at  the  two  relatives  in  the  Studio.  The  famous  Mary 
was  seated  in  a  flowered  armchair,  and  seemed  just  to  have 
looked  round  over  her  shoulder.  Her  delicate,  quite  girlish, 
face  wore  her  characteristic  look  of  faint,  grave  interrogation; 
her  eyes  were  intent  and  fine. 

"Gad,  you  know!"  said  Judge  Blenso,  who  had  seen 
Charles's  name  in  print  for  the  first  time  with  an  exclamation 
of  pride  and  pleasure.  "Why,  it's  stunnin',  my  dear  fellow! 
Simply  stunnin'!" 

But  the  mind's  eye  of  Charles,  looking  down  at  the  life 
like  presentment,  was  seeing  that  confident  gaze  averted;  the 

179 


Angela's    Business 


ear  of  his  fancy  was  hearing  the  low  sounds  of  womanly  emo 
tion  in  this  quarter  at  last.  That,  of  course,  was  just  after  he 
had  gently  said  to  her  —  why,  it  might  be  next  week!  —  "Do 
you  remember  telling  me  one  day  that  I  could  n't  help  you 
at  all?  Why,  Miss  Mary,  did  you  really  suppose  I'd  let  you 
go  on  as  a  Grammar  School  teacher  till  May!  ..." 

"Bring  'em  out  as  a  holiday  book  —  that's  what  I  say! 
Why,  good  gad,  Charles!  —  we  only  got  twenty  dollars  for 
that  piece  there!" 

The  young  man  laughed  absently,  and  removed  his  over 
coat.  A  glance  at  Big  Bill  showed  that  it  was  just  four  o'clock. 
He  had  examined  the  mail,  heard  the  secretary 's  unfavorable 
reports.  The  Studio,  after  nearly  three  weeks'  holiday,  sug 
gested  the  necessity  of  work  undoubtedly;  he  was  as  far  from 
settling  upon  his  Line  as  ever.  But  it  seemed  that  he  did  n't 
feel  like  plotting  scenarios  to-day. 

The  "Post,"  the  "State,"  the  "Chronicle"  — why  should 
n't  he  go  down  there  now,  get  the  thing  started  at  once?  .  .  . 

"Oh,  Judge,  by  the  way!  Do  you  know  whether  Miss 
McGee  ever  brought  back  that  book  I  lent  her?  —  fat  red 
book,  called  'Marna'?" 

"'Marna,'  'Marna'?  Never  heard  of  it.  Yes,  that's  so, 
she  did!  Here  it  is!"  said  the  Judge,  and  forthwith  plucked 
Miss  Angela's  long-kept  loan  from  the  bookcase  close  by. 

"That 'sit!  Let's  lay  it  here  on  the  mantel.  Then  maybe 
I '11  remember— " 

"And  borrowed  a  lot  more,  too!"  exclaimed  the  Judge, 
suddenly  laughing  loud  and  long.  "  Gad,  I  lent  her  an  armful, 
fact!  —  night  we  had  the  sleet-storm! " 

"You  did?  —  good!  We'll  convince  her  we're  her  true 
friends  yet."  . 

His  secretary,  having  gazed  at  him  a  moment  with  brilliant 

180 


Angela's    Business 


blankness,  suddenly  exclaimed:  "Why,  Charles,  my  dear 
fellow,  you're  looking  like  a  fighting-cock!  You  must  have 
put  on  a  stone  —  fine!  Here,  let  me  feel  your  muscle!" 

Charles  tried  to  evade  that  ceremony,  but  it  was,  of  course, 
no  use.  Having  caught  him  going  through  certain  setting-up 
exercises  one  night,  and  being  misled  by  the  light  remark  he 
let  fall,  Judge  Blenso  was  irrevocably  convinced  that  the 
sedentary  Charles  had  an  affair  of  honor  on  his  hands.  The 
night  he  made  this  discovery —  the  very  night  Charles  se 
cretly  began  the  exercises,  of  course,  the  night  of  the  day  he 
had  seen  Mysinger  on  the  street  —  the  Judge  had  become  al 
most  dangerously  excited,  springing  from  bed  and  walking 
about  a  long  time  in  his  pajamas,  saying  over  and  over:  "The 
old  blood '11  tell!  Gad,  you  know!  It's  the  old  blood!"  All 
attempts  to  explain,  then  and  since,  had  been  utterly  without 
effect. 

However,  a  knock  on  the  door  interrupted  the  proceedings, 
and  Mrs.  Herman  came  walking  into  the  Studio  —  a  dark, 
round,  rosy  little  body,  beetle-browed  but  beaming. 

"Such  a  popular  man  I  never  saw!"  said  she,  roguishly. 
"One  lady  meeting  him  and  driving  him  up  from  the  station, 
another  calling  him  up  before  he 's  hardly  arrived,  and  good 
ness  knows  who'll  be  next!" 

"Why,  who's  calling  me,  Mrs.  Herman?" 

"It's  Miss  Wing!  —  waiting  at  the  phone!  And  no  wonder, 
with  all  you  and  the  Judge  have  done  for  her,  I'm  sure!  Judge, 
I  hope  you  find  your  new  chair  comfortable?  " 

Having  received  the  unexpected  summons  with  a  peculiar 
start  of  gladness,  the  young  man  descended  the  stairs  with 
the  most  agreeable  anticipations.  To  do  a  valuable  service 
for  a  friend  is,  with  some  natures,  to  become  fonder  than  ever 
of  that  friend;  and  Charles,  from  the  moment  of  reading  her 

181 


Angela's    Business 


unprecedented  letter,  was  aware  that  his  original  services 
to  Mary  had  distinctly  had  these  sentimental  reactions.  (For 
of  course  such  natures  are  sentimental,  disgustingly  so,  and 
real  Men  —  not  to  say  realistic  men  —  invariably  hate  and 
despise  their  friends,  and  speak  to  said  friends  at  all  only  with 
a  view  to  taking  away  their  money  or  their  wives.) 

So,  sitting  down  at  the  little  telephone-table  in  the  dark 
rear-hall,  Charles  smiled  to  himself  and  said,  in  a  false  voice:  — 

"Pardon  me,  but  is  this  the  famous  Miss  Wing,  who  — " 

And  Mary's  voice  seemed  to  spring  toward  him  through 
the  receiver,  like  an  embrace:  "Oh,  King  Charles/" 

It  was  a  little  name  she  had  made  long  ago  by  turning  his 
first  two  names  about,  but  reserved  for  rare  occasions  only. 
Rare  also  was  it  to  hear  this  commonly  contained  voice  so 
deeply  stirred. 

"  Welcome  home!  I  hope  I  did  n't  interrupt  your  work,  but 
it  seemed  I  couldn't  wait!  And,  of  course,  I  haven't  half 
thanked  you  yet,  have  n't  begun  to  tell  you  how  much  — 
how  much  —  I  appreciate  all  you've  done  for  me.  ..." 

Once  more,  the  fortunate  Charles  was  brushing  aside  a 
lady's  gratitude  —  rather  generously,  considering  the  infre- 
quency  of  grounds  of  gratitude  here.  He  laughed  gaily  into 
the  receiver. 

"  The  real  point  is,  why  under  the  sun  did  you  connect  me 
right  away  with  the  remarkable  outburst  of  popular  admira 
tion?  Hartwell  went  gossiping  about,  I  suppose?" 

"I  didn't  need  Mr.  Hartwell  to  tell  me  anything  about 
that!  But—" 

"Aha!  So  Fanny  told  you  about  the  photographs  — " 

"She  never  breathed  a  word  — " 

"Good-evening,  Miss  Holmes!  —  old  Watson  speaking! 
Will  you  kindly  explain  your  — !" 

182 


Angela's    Business 


"Why,  of  course  there  was  n't  but  one  person  on  earth  who 
could  have  done  such  a  beautiful  thing  for  me! " 

All  alone  in  the  hall,  Charles  felt  himself  coloring  with 
pleasure.  However,  the  unwonted  flush  was  not  for  long. 

"I  have  to  pinch  myself,"  the  girl's  eager  voice  rushed  on 
(did  it  sound  just  a  thought  more  triumphant  than  even  the 
author  of  the  write-ups  could  have  expected?),  —  "for  every 
magazine  I  pick  up  is  full  of  nothing  but  Me !  I  Ve  just  seen 
'WillcoxV  —  oh,  you  don't  know  how  much  I  liked  that! 
You've  simply  taken  my  breath  away!  And  then  to  come  in 
and  find  this  I  —  everything  beautiful  happening  to  me  at 
once!  I—" 

"What?  More  honors,  celebrity?" 

"The  greatest!  —  the  most  wonderful!  Mr.  Garrott,  what 
DO  you  suppose?" 

Mr.  Garrott  hardly  liked  the  slant  the  conversation  was 
taking.  The  understanding  was  that  whatever  beautiful 
things  happened  to  the  Career  were  to  happen  exclusively 
through  him  now. 

"Why!  —  I  can't  guess!  Not  —  Has  the  School  Board  —  " 

"Pish  for  the  School  Board,"  cried  the  voice  that  was  wont 
to  be  so  calm.  "You're  talking  to  the  new  Secretary  of  the 
League!" 

"I'm...  What?" 

"The  person  you're  conversing  with,  if  you  please,  is  the 
General  Secretary  of  the  National  League  for  Education  Re 
form!"  Her  happy  laugh  rang  on  the  wire:  "Are  you  stag 
gered?  Well,  I  am,  too!  I  simply  can't  begin  to  take  it 
in..." 

Had  Mrs.  Herman's  house  fallen  about  his  ears,  the  young 
man  at  the  telephone-table  could,  indeed,  scarcely  have  been 
staggered  more.  His  sense  was  of  one  falling  headlong  through 

183 


Angela's    Business 


space.  He  gripped  the  edge  of  the  table  with  a  large  left  hand, 
and  for  the  instant  there  was  no  speech  in  him. 

"I  found  the  letter  from  Dr.  Ames  when  I  got  in  just  now 
— •  oh,  the  nicest  letter,  explaining  everything!  And  of  course 
I  wanted  to  tell  you  right  away  —  you  Ve  been  so  good  about 
wanting  to  help !  Don't  you  remember,  it  was  you  who  spoke 
of  this  as  my  brilliant  revenge?  We  little  thought  then  ..." 

Wanting  to  help  !  Doubt  not,  that  was  the  body  blow. 

"  No  —  no !  And  I  —  I  really  don't  take  it  in  —  even  now," 
he  was  saying,  struggling  desperately  for  his  mask.  "I  —  ah 
—  I'd  given  up  all  —  idea,  you  see!  Why,  I  understood  that 
was  all  of!  I—" 

"  Of  course  —  so  had  I !  That 's  what  makes  it  such  a  wonder 
ful  bolt  from  the  blue!  There  was  another  candidate,  you  see 
—  a  college  president,  imagine!  —  and  Dr.  Ames  says  he 
felt  he  ought  to  be  very  discreet  and  reticent  till  it  was  all 
settled.  But  I  was  elected  unanimously,  and  must  be  in  New 
York  to  take  charge  of  the  office  on  March  ist.  .  .  ." 

It  was  the  complete  collapse  of  his  triumph  and  his  hope:  he 
would  not  be  going  to  the  newspaper-offices  now.  But  that 
sentence,  that  concrete  date,  took  the  whole  matter  deeper 
still.  Charles  Garrott  took  a  firmer  grip  on  Mrs.  Herman's 
little  table.  Now  his  voice  came  firmer,  too :  — 

"The  first  woman  secretary  they  ever  had!  .  .  .  Why  — 
it's  immense !" 

In  the  ensuing  dialogue,  in  which,  for  pride's  sake,  he  sought 
to  strike  just  the  right  felicitatory  note,  there  was  an  instant 
when  the  possibility  flashed  upon  him  that  the  stunning  event 
was  itself  but  the  unimagined  by-product  of  the  write-ups. 
The  directors  had  decided  not  to  give  the  distinguished  post  to 
an  obscure  provincial  teacher,  when  all  of  a  sudden  his  great 
broadside  of  fame  for  Mary  had  come  roaring  in  among  them. 

184 


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The  thought,  in  this  moment  of  utter  frustration,  seemed  ac 
tually  welcome  to  him.  But  it  had  hadly  fluttered  before  Mary 
struck  it  dead,  in  the  most  incidental  manner:  incidental  — 
since,  to  be  just,  she,  having  no  knowledge  whatever  of  his 
secret  plans,  could  hardly  guess  what  annihilation  she  was 
dealing  out  to  them.  It  developed,  in  short,  that  her  election, 
though  held  back  a  few  days  to  be  ratified  by  the  trustees  of 
the  League's  endowment  fund,  had  actually  taken  place  on 
December  27th.  And  it  was  too  readily  recalled  that  the  first 
of  the  write-ups  had  not  appeared  till  the  following  day. 

"Yes  —  yes!  .  .  .  Fine  holiday,  thank  you!  — fine!  But 
of  course  —  no  triumphs  like  this  to  report!  ..." 

"Well!  —  I  mustn't  keep  you  now,  of  course!"  said  the 
victorious  voice.  "I'm  looking  forward  to  seeing  you  .  .  ." 

No,  it  was  sufficiently  clear  that  he  had  but  labored  to  heap 
coals  in  Newcastle.  It  was  just  the  case  of  the  old  write-up,, 
last  year;  only  now  a  thousand  times  worse.  Often  before, 
this  desire  in  him  to  help,  this  spontaneous  protecting  instinct 
which  seemed  to  be  always  flowing  out  here,  had  been  re 
buffed  and  defeated.  But  this  time,  his  defeat  seemed  to  be 
final.  And,  hanging  up  the  receiver  at  last,  the  young  man 
sat  silent  with  the  feeling  that  something  valuable  and  im 
portant  had  suddenly  departed  from  his  life. 

He  felt  that  he  had  been  rather  imposed  upon,  but  that 
did  n't  matter  particularly.  He  felt  beaten,  as  he  had  never 
been  beaten  before,  and  that  seemed  to  matter  a  good  deal. 
With  an  odd  and  profound  sense  of  blank  chagrin,  he  recog 
nized,  at  last,  that  when  Mary  Wing  had  said  that  she  did  n't 
need  his  help,  she  had  been  merely  stating  a  literal  and  obvious 
truth.  How  he  had  been  such  a  fool  as  ever  to  think  otherwise? 

But  deeper  than  all  this,  it  seemed  clear  from  the  begin 
ning  that  he  was  disappointed  in  his  friend,  personally.  Had 

185 


Angela's    Business 


he  not  read  into  her  all  along,  and  put  into  the  write-ups,  a 
rather  finer  quality  than  she,  in  fact,  possessed?  Spinsters 
were  entitled  to  a  man 's  freedom  to  follow  away  their  work 
—  of  course.  But  it  seemed  that  he  had  never  been  able  to 
imagine  Mary  as  actually  seizing  this  Right.  And  now,  here 
she  was  doing  it,  with  joy  —  the  end  of  next  month.  Now 
behold  her,  whose  praises  he  had  so  superfluously  sung  round 
the  world  —  just  an  ordinary  Redmantler  after  all,  it  seemed, 
exultantly  striking  off  mother,  home,  friends;  a  female  Ego 
ist,  no  more,  visibly  engaged  in  "  fiercely  hacking  away."  .  .  . 
He  could,  indeed,  scarcely  take  it  in.  And  stoutly  he  as 
sured  himself  that  his  whole  feeling  about  the  matter  would 
have  been  different  —  if  only  she  had  showed,  at  once,  that 
this  would  be  a  wrench  for  her,  that  her  thought  was  colored 
by  a  sense  of  values  not  connected  with  her  Self.  But  no;  it 
seemed  that  the  new  General  Secretary  had  no  thought  to 
spare  for  the  immaterial  business  of  being  a  sister  and  being  a 
daughter. 

So  Charles's  call  at  the  Wings'  on  the  evening  of  his  home 
coming  wore  a  complexion  not  contemplated  by  him  when  he 
had  arranged  the  matter. 

He  had  made  this  engagement,  under  the  general  misap 
prehension,  in  his  reply  to  Mary's  grateful  letter  last  week. 
And  now  he  had  to  keep  it,  however  malapropos,  resolved  as 
he  was  that  she  should  never  sense  any  criticism  or  disappro 
bation  in  him.  To  seek  to  "influence"  her,  naturally  never 
entered  his  mind.  No,  he  was  her  casual  spectator  now  and 
henceforward;  he  had  dipped  his  oar  in  her  affairs  for  the  last 
time. 

But  the  call  was  hardly  much  of  a  success,  despite  all  efforts. 
Mary,  having  now  had  time  to  recapture  her  usual  poise,  no 

186 


Angela's    Business 


longer  impressed  one  as  being  so  unreservedly  overjoyed  with 
herself.  It  was  noted  that  she  kept  referring  to  the  write-ups, 
kept  assuring  him  how  delightful  she  found  it  to  be  a  celebrity 
as  well  as  a  Secretary,  etc.,  etc.  The  caller's  intellect  coldly 
gave  her  credit  for  ''being  very  nice."  However,  no  niceness 
could  help  much  to  drape  the  stark  obtruding  facts;  no  civili 
ties  seemed  fitted  to  cope  with  the  intangible  wall  suddenly 
sprung  up  in  the  old  friendship.  And  if  there  had  lingered  in 
Charles's  mind  some  revolting  incredulity,  some  reactionary 
insistence  that  Mary  could  never  really  carry  out  the  typi 
cal  exploit  of  the  Egoette,  the  talk  this  evening  finally 
killed  it.  The  famous  educator's  sentences  made  it  clear, 
once  and  for  all,  that  she  was  Leaving  Home  for  good  —  for 
her  own  good,  of  course  —  on  the  ist  day  of  March  succeeding. 

Charles  was  determinedly  "sincere"  throughout  the  brief 
call,  continuously  and  spuriously  hearty.  Inwardly,  his  resolve 
grew  more  and  more  fixed  that  this  young  woman,  who  was 
so  rarely  competent  to  Lead  Her  Own  Life,  should  be  per 
mitted  to  lead  it  quite  unassisted  henceforth.  For  himself, 
he  decided  that  his  life  should  go  to  the  unremitting  service 
of  pure  Letters.  But  of  such  matters,  of  course,  he  permitted 
his  agreeable  chatter  to  yield  no  hint.  Taking  his  departure 
upon  a  new  wave  of  felicitations,  he  could  but  congratulate 
himself  upon  the  trained  adeptness  of  his  mask. 

And  Mary,  having  shut  the  door  upon  her  caller,  stood 
leaning  against  it,  her  arched  brows  drawn  together  in  a  faint 
frown,  her  fine  eyes  faintly  bewildered. 

"Now  what,"  she  said,  half  aloud,  "have  I  said  or  done,  or 
left  unsaid  or  undone,  this  time?" 

And  then  she  went  slowly  back  to  her  mother's  bedroom, 
where  she  found  her  mother  with  stockings  to  darn,  and  (taken 
unawares)  her  eyes  a  little  red. 


XIV 

IN  the  Home  on  Center  Street,  the  shrunken  curtain 
was  rarely  hooked  back  on  the  nail  now.  And  on  the 
ledge  of  the  little  window  that  gazed  toward  the  Blest, 
the  shabby  opera-glasses  gathered  dust. 

As  is  perfectly  understood,  Careers  in  the  making  are  the 
stuff  to  make  conservatives  of  others.  Observing  Egoettes, 
an  authority,  if  male,  inevitably  reacts,  thinking  better  and 
better  of  the  gentle  business  of  supplying  beauty  and  supply 
ing  charm.  Charles  Garrott,  in  short,  having  repudiated  all 
connection  with  the  life  of  Mary  Wing,  was  in  just  the  proper 
frame  of  mind  to  applaud  the  life  of  Mary's  so  different  cousin. 
And  Charles  did  applaud  it  —  certainly.  But,  of  course,  such 
purely  scientific  endorsement  did  not  controvert  another  estab 
lished  known  truth,  namely,  that,  under  certain  circumstances 
and  as  applied  to  certain  individuals,  the  supply  of  the  soft 
commodities  referred  to  may  very  well  prove  a  little  in  excess 
of  the  demand. 

The  well-known  thought  first  flickered  back  into  Charles's 
mind  on  the  third  day  of  his  home-coming.  At  the  moment, 
he  stood  on  the  corner  nearest  Berringer's,  having  just  dis 
mounted  there  from  Miss  Angela's  conveyance.  On  the  fifth 
day  of  his  home-coming,  at  the  same  corner,  his  reflections  on 
supply  and  demand  were  assuming  an  increasing  definite- 
ness. 

"Well,  then  —  good-bye!"  he  was  saying,  with  his  fatal 
pleasantness.  "  And  thank  you  very  much  for  the  lift." 

From  the  seat  of  Tommy's  valuable  donation,  Angela  was 

188 


Angela's    Business 


gazing  up  at  him.  And  he  saw  that  her  face,  which  had  been 
smiling,  was  touched  with  a  brief  seriousness. 

"Oh,  you  know  I've  enjoyed  it  —  so  much!  But  —  we 
never  seem  to  have  anything  but  these  little  bits  of  talks. 
I'm  sorry.  .  .  .  Perhaps  I'll  see  you  to-morrow?" 

"Ha!  — quite  likely!  — yes!  Thank  you!  Well!—  good 
bye!" 

And  he  turned  away  toward  luncheon  and  the  good  man- 
talk  with  a  crescent  uneasiness,  having  failed  to  point  out  — 
possibly  failing  to  remember  —  that  to-morrow  was  Saturday, 
and  he  would  be  off  to  the  country  again. 

Day  before  yesterday,  he  had  encountered  the  conveyance 
as  he  left  the  Demings'  at  one  o'clock.  To-day,  he  had  over 
taken  it  on  his  walk  downtown  —  literally  that,  for  he  was  a 
fast  walker  and  a  little  absent-minded  besides.  Thus  he  had 
now  enjoyed  three  peace-making  drives  with  the  girl  he  had 
once  parted  from  forever,  all  in  the  course  of  his  first  five 
days  at  home.  And  now  at  the  end  of  their  third  pleasant 
talk,  particularly  after  these  last  prospective  remarks  of  hers, 
Charles  could  not  but  feel  that  the  true  object  of  these  re-meet 
ings  had  been  satisfactorily  accomplished.  Now  the  recon 
ciliation  was  complete;  now  he  felt  no  lingering  shadow  of 
doubt  of  his  forgiveness  for  having  once  been  a  brute. 

He  did  not  regret  the  drives;  he  was  very  glad,  indeed,  to  be 
good  friends  again;  but  his  subtle  instinct  seemed  to  warn  him 
that  he  and  Angela  would  do  best,  would  get  along  with  the 
fewest  misunderstandings,  without  a  rapidly  developing  inti 
macy.  And,  taking  the  higher  view,  it  clearly  was  not  right, 
it  was  not  moral,  that  a  confirmed  bachelor  like  himself 
should  go  on  indefinitely  monopolizing  a  nice  young  Spinster 
Home-Maker's  time. 

Returning  to  town  on  Monday,  Charles,  though  in  the 

!89    ' 


Angela's    Business 


kindest  way,  went  to  Berringer's  by  the  Center  Street  car- 
line.  He  felt,  indeed,  that  he  was  really  looking  out  for  the 
girl's  higher  good  more  than  for  his  own:  she  lacked  that  com 
petence  to  manage  her  own  life,  so  harshly  flaunted  by  others. 
All  passed  off  well.  On  Tuesday  he  utilized  the  traction  sys 
tem  again,  with  equally  satisfying  results.  And  then,  on  Tues 
day  afternoon,  as  he  trod  professionally  from  the  old  lady's 
who  was  studying  French  to  Miss  Grace  Chorister's,  he 
suddenly  ran  upon  the  Fordette  again. 

By  an  odd  chance,  the  quaint  little  vehicle  was  standing 
still,  directly  in  front  of  the  Choristers'.  His  reconciled 
friend  was  out  of  it,  standing  by,  bending  well  over  the  car, 
peering  into  it.  Nevertheless,  by  some  sixth  sense,  she  saw 
him  at  once  and,  straightening  up  with  a  pleased  smile,  she 
waved  and  called:  — 

"Oh,  Mr.  Garrott!  —  how  glad  I  am  to  see  you!  Do  you 
know  how  to  crank?" 

He  approached  with  the  gallantest  air,  the  most  civil 
speeches.  All  the  same,  as  he  bent  to  his  hard  labor  —  for  the 
Fordette  proved  dangerously  stiff  in  the  crank  —  and  politely 
sought  to  explain  how  to  avoid  killing  the  engine  for  the  future, 
he  was  conscious  of  a  certain  sense  of  rebellion.  .  .  .  Excellent, 
laudable,  justifying  things,  beauty  and  charm;  but  the  plain 
fact  was  that  he,  Charles,  was  simply  not  in  the  market  for 
them  at  present,  that  was  all. 

The  friendship,  indeed,  was  well  cemented  now;  the  talk 
characterized  with  a  growing  confidence. 

"Oh,  how  strong  you  are!"  said  Angela  admiringly,  as  he 
finally  got  the  old  engine  to  spinning.  "I  do  wish  I  could  do 
it  like  that!  Now  you  must  let  me  pay  you  for  your  trouble! 
—  won't  you?  I'm  just  driving  around,  really,  so  don't 
think—" 

190 


Angela's    Business 


"Oh,  thank  you,  but  I  go  in  here.  Business  hours,  you 
know !  Well !  Now  you  're  —  " 

"Oh,  is  this  where  you  teach  every  afternoon?"  asked 
Angela,  with  interest,  gazing  past  him  at  the  handsome  stone 
"front"  of  the  Choristers'.  "Oh,  yes,  Miss  Chorister.  .  .  . 
How  long  does  the  lesson  last?" 

"Oh,  an  hour  —  usually.  But,  of  course,"  added  the  young 
man,  his  eye  wavering  slightly,  "that  depends  somewhat  — 
on  circumstances  — " 

"You  don't  get  out  till  about  half-past  four,  then?  I  do 
wish  you  weren't  so  awfully  busy!  Mr.  Garrott,  have  you 
been  away  again?  I  don't  seem  to  have  seen  you  at  all  for  a 
good  many  days  now." 

"Yes!  That's  it!  —  been  away  again!  I  go  away  all  the 
time  —  practically.  And  when  I  'm  here,  why,  it 's  nothing 
but  work,  work,  work,  from  morning  to  night,  for  me!  It's 
a  wonder  to  me  I  have  a  friend  left,  I  have  to  be  so  horribly 
unsociable  —  always.  But,"  continued  Charles,  "I'm  glad 
I  happened  by  in  time  to  be  of  some  help.  By  the  by,  had  n't 
you  better  get  in  and  try  her  out?  I  don't  like  to  rush  on  to 
my  lesson  till  I  know  you're  all  right." 

"Yes,  I  suppose  I  had.  I  ought  n't  to  stop  you  now." 

His  suggestion,  indeed,  had  a  striking  reasonableness. 
Fortunately,  the  try-out  proved  quite  successful,  after  only 
a  little  pushing  and  kicking.  But  the  Fordette  snorted  from 
before  the  Choristers'  very  slowly,  Angela  looking  back  over 
her  shoulder,  smiling  at  him,  a  pretty  and  appealing  look  on 
her  entirely  feminine  face. 

Charles  went  up  to  his  daily  hour  with  Miss  Grace,  in  a 
brown  study. 

Miss  Grace,  it  must  be  known,  was  a  Temporary  Spinster, 
verging  toward  Permanence;  she  was  round,  gentle,  blonde, 

191 


Angela's    Business 


by  no  means  displeasing  or  ill-looking.  Had  the  world  been 
the  normal  place  Old  Tories  took  it  to  be,  Miss  Grace  would 
undoubtedly  have  been  one  of  those  happy  women  who  find 
themselves,  at  twenty-five,  with  a  home,  a  husband,  and  three 
darling  little  curly-headed  children;  and  there  were  a  hundred 
signs  that  so  she  would  have  found  full  happiness  indeed.  But 
the  world  being  not  normal  now,  but,  on  the  contrary,  in 
Unrest,  something  remote  had  gone  wrong  with  Miss  Grace, 
parting  her  from  her  manifest  destiny.  Perhaps  the  panic  of 
1907  was  to  blame,  or  a  decrease  in  the  visible  gold  supply; 
perhaps  the  trouble  was  in  that  hard  saying  of  the  Redman- 
tiers,  that  Love  was  going  out.  At  any  rate,  here  hung  Miss 
Grace  on  the  parent  stem  in  Washington  Street,  a  Waiting 
Woman:  the  non-understanding  and  unaccounted-for  Anom 
aly  in  a  disordered  social  system;  an  adult  human  being  thirty- 
two  years  old,  with  nothing  upon  earth  to  do. 

Miss  Grace's  subjects  were  Sociology  and  the  History  of 
the  World.  An  agreeable  soul  herself,  she  noted  that  her 
tutor's  manner  this  afternoon  was  taciturn  and  distrait.  As 
he  was  concluding  his  remarks  upon  the  thirty  pages  of  Lester 
Ward  that  made  her  lesson,  she  noted  that  he  lost  his  thread 
suddenly,  and  left  a  sentence  permanently  hanging  in  mid-air. 
Back  into  the  tutor's  head,  in  fact,  the  artless  questionings  of 
another  had  popped  with  arresting  force:  "Is  this  where  you 
teach  every  afternoon?  You  get  out  about  half-past  four?  "  From 
taciturn,  Mr.  Garrott's  manner  became  restless  and  rather 
irritable.  And  when  the  hour  of  four-thirty  arrived,  he  did 
not  snap  his  watch  at  Miss  Grace  and  depart  at  once,  accord 
ing  to  his  almost  invariable  habit.  No,  he  moved  in  a  novel 
manner,  to  the  drawing-room  window.  And  he  stood  there, 
oddly  and  irresolutely,  gazing  out,  first  up  the  street  and  then 
down. 

192 


Angela's    Business 


Why  had  he  mentioned  that  the  lesson  lasted  an  hour 
usually?  Why  had  n't  he  said,  frankly,  that  it  lasted  till  five 
or  six  o'clock,  and  often  later? 

Slowly  but  surely  the  idea  was  being  established  that  it  was 
the  natural  and  usual  thing  for  him  and  Angela  to  drive  in 
the  old  Fordette  every  day.  It  was  time  for  him  definitely  to 
break  up  this  idea.  Otherwise,  what  was  to  be  the  end  of  it 
all?  —  that  was  what  he  wanted  to  know.  More  and  more  he 
seemed  to  become  aware  of  a  gentle  claim,  an  indescribable 
pressure,  very  soft,  yet  rather  alarmingly  sure.  Why  on  earth 
could  n't  she  be  satisfied  just  to  be  pleasant  friends  once  more? 
Why  all  this  talk  of  future  meetings,  of  seeing  you  again  all 
the  time? 

Miss  Grace  stood  some  distance  behind  her  tutor,  observing 
his  strange  behavior.  Somehow  her  attitude  wore  the  air  of 
a  typical  expression  of  character.  Miss  Grace  had  flutterings, 
as  witness  her  growing  knowledge  of  the  Merovingians;  she 
even  pretended  to  nibble  fearfully  at  her  tutor's  occasional 
exhortations,  that  she  cease  her  parasiting  and  go  to  work. 
But  beneath  such  vague  symptoms  of  Unrest,  it  was  clear 
that  she  remained  as  her  tradition  and  environment  had 
fixed  her,  a  Woman  of  Romance:  that  is  to  say,  a  being  gladly 
content  to  serve  as  the  spectator  and  audience  of  Man. 

"Mr.  Garrott,"  she  said  suddenly,  in  her  rather  childlike 
voice,  "I  don't  believe  you  are  a  bit  busy  this  afternoon.  You 
really  must  stay  for  tea.  Nobody's  coming  in,  sister's  out, 
and  you  know  you  have  n't  stayed  for  perfect  ages." 

To  her  surprise,  the  unsocial  tutor  accepted  at  once.  He 
remained  with  his  pupil  till  quarter  past  five.  Thereupon,  he 
reached  his  Studio  without  interruption,  entirely  on  foot. 

Charles  (thinking  for  the  young  girl's  highest  good)  was 
rather  pleased  with  this  development.  By  accident,  he  seemed 

193 


Angela's    Business 


to  have  hit  upon  quite  a  satisfactory  sort  of  modus  vivendi: 
street-cars  to  Berringer's,  and  tea  at  Miss  Grace's  till  dark. 
Next  day  he  tried  the  programme  again. 

This  time,  it  did  not  work  out  quite  so  well:  the  secret  truth 
of  the  matter  being  that,  at  bottom,  all  Spinsters  have  certain 
well-defined  points  in  common.  That,  in  fact,  is  what  makes 
them  a  class.  And,  speaking  in  the  large,  you  may  say  that 
there  is  no  such  thing  as  a  Permanent  Spinster. 

Lessons  at  the  Choristers'  took  place  in  the  library,  a 
stately  room,  yet  charming,  too.  Into  it,  a  dusky  maid 
wheeled  a  double-tiered  tea-table,  all  mahogany  and  glass, 
silver  and  china  atop,  little  cakes  and  small  enticements  on 
the  deck  below.  Talk  of  historical  matters  ceased.  There 
sprang  up  light  prattle  of  the  little  things  Miss  Grace  knew 
and  liked  best. 

The  tutor,  basking  by  the  fireside  and  waiting  for  night, 
was  not  unhappy.  Though  he  frequently  lectured  Miss 
Grace,  through  long  use  he  really  liked  her.  Now,  he  was  also 
consciously  grateful  for  her  haven  from  the  too  social  life  of 
Washington  Street.  That  he  could  not  go  on  taking  tea  with 
Miss  Grace  every  day  for  the  rest  of  his  life  he,  of  course, 
knew  well;  but  he  would  just  take  each  day's  problems  as  he 
came  to  them.  Meanwhile,  this  Spinster  supplied  a  quiet 
charm.  Her  hands  hovered  ministeringly  over  the  tea-table. 
For  a  plumpish  woman,  she  had  noticeably  small  hands, 
graceful  and  white.  When  the  tutor  made  her  a  civil  com 
pliment,  she  colored  like  a  school-girl. 

Following  the  compliment  there  was  a  moment  of  fire- 
lit  silence.  And  then  Miss  Grace's  voice  said  softly  and 
sweetly: 

"You  are  looking  at  my  ring.  I  'm  wearing  it  — " 

So  that  ended  that. 

194 


THIS  SPINSTER  SUPPLIED  A  QUIET  CHARM 


Angela's    Business 


The  tutor  was  on  his  feet  so  abruptly  as  to  set  the  tea- 
things  shaking. 

"No!  No,  I  was  n't  —  I  swear!  I  must  go  at  once,"  said 
Charles. 

Unaware  of  the  painful  memories  her  womanly  words 
evoked,  Miss  Grace  naturally  looked  very  much  surprised. 

"But  —  what's  the  matter?  Why,  you  act  as  if  it  were 
something  improper -for  you  to  look  at  my  ring!" 

"Absurd,"  said  the  tutor,  with  a  gesture. 

He  had  merely  remembered,  all  of  a  sudden,  something  very 
important  he  had  to  do,  that  was  all.  Pardon  his  haste,  but 
he  had  already  stayed  too  long,  he  feared. 

Indifferent  to  Miss  Grace's  bewilderment,  he  left  at  once, 
wondering  if  voluntary  celibacy  could  not  exist,  and  be  re 
spected,  upon  this  earth.  And  next  day,  as  he  stood  on  the 
corner  of  Center  Street  awaiting  his  good,  safe  street-car  — 
indeed,  as  he  was  in  the  very  act  of  boarding  the  said  safe  car 
—  the  little  Fordette  chugged  up  behind  and  nipped  him. 

It  was  a  pure  accident,  and  he  knew  it.  But  he  saw  at  once 
that  no  accident  could  well  have  been  less  opportune.  It 
involved  a  discovery  highly  prejudicial  to  his  future. 

Angela,  indeed,  had  not  even  seen  Mr.  Garrott.  She  had 
merely  perceived,  rounding  the  corner  into  her  own  street, 
that  she  was  about  to  run  over  somebody,  and  had  awkwardly 
clapped  on  her  brake,  just  in  time.  Recognizing  her  friend 
in  the  person  she  had  so  nearly  bumped,  she  gave  a  little 
feminine  cry  of  mirth  and  excitement;  and,  while  she  apolo 
gized  and  laughed  over  the  strange  coincidence,  Charles's 
car,  of  course,  suddenly  clanged  away  and  left  him.  The  rest 
followed,  as  the  night  the  day. 

Almost  the  first  thing  she  said  was:  "Oh,  is  this  where  you 
take  the  street-cars,  when  you  have  n't  time  to  walk?  " 


Angela's    Business 


Charles's  reply  indicated  that  he  was  very  erratic  and  un 
certain  in  these  matters,  taking  the  cars  now  at  one  point,  now 
again  in  a  totally  different  quarter  of  the  city. 

So  the  two  friends,  no  longer  constrained  by  misunder 
standing,  started  off  on  the  slow  mile  drive  to  Berringer's. 
In  the  course  of  this  drive,  Charles  had  his  first  justifying 
thought  of  Mary  Wing  in  ten  days. 

He  recognized,  with  deep  misgivings,  that  this  girl's  atti 
tude  toward  him  was  wholly  ingenuous  and  natural,  the 
" claim"  he  complained  of  but  the  spontaneous  expression  of 
her  girlish  conception  of  their  relations.  That,  of  course,  was 
just  the  worst  of  it;  in  that  naivete  (oh,  surely  this  was  the 
Naive  Sex!)  was  her  soft  strength.  He,  with  his  cursed  weak 
politeness,  knew  not  how  to  withstand  her  maidenly  theory; 
she,  on  the  other  hand,  had  new  means  of  putting  it  forward 
constantly.  All  was  changed,  he  saw  now  clearly,  from  the 
instant  when  she  came  riding  back  into  his  life  at  the  wheel 
of  the  ancient  Fordette. 

How  was  he  to  have  any  privacy  of  movement  hencefor 
ward;  how  get  from  place  to  place? 

Beside  him,  the  girl  was  talking,  with  simple  pleasure,  of 
bridge.  It  appeared  that  she  was  thinking  of  having  another 
party  next  week,  in  honor  of  Cousin  Mary.  Mr.  Tilletts  was 
very  anxious  to  improve  his  game,  she  mentioned. 

"And  I  think  I'll  invite  you  too,"  she  said,  with  becom 
ing  coquetry —  "even  though  you've  never  paid  your  party- 
call  —  for  the  other  one!" 

But  why  was  n't  she  sometimes  at  home,  home-making? 
That  was  what  he  should  like  to  know. 

And  aloud,  he  spoke  with  hard  brightness  of  the  weather. 

Through  her  seemingly  incessant  practice,  Angela  drove 
better  now;  not  efficiently  or  rapidly,  but  no  longer  with  her 

196 


Angela's    Business 


first  anxious  air,  stopping  short  when  she  saw  a  wagon  a  block 
away.  This  left  her  more  freedom  and  enterprise  for  conversa 
tion.  Mr.  Garrott's  meteorological  comments  soon  petered 
out.  Subtly,  gently,  her  manner  seemed  to  reprove  him  for 
wasting  their  time,  as  it  were,  on  trivialities. 

She  said  presently:  "Did  you  ever  read  that  book  I  lent 
you,  Mr.  Garrott  —  'Marna'?" 

The  young  man  groaned  inwardly.  He  could  not  under 
stand  why  he  had  not  returned  the  book  last  week  as  he  had 
intended  —  with  or  without  the  blossoms  —  instead  of  dilly 
dallying  along  this  way,  till  some  point  was  made  of  it.  True 
enough,  Angela  interrupted  his  loquacious  apologies:  — 

"Oh,  it  isn't  that!  I  really  don't  want  the  book  at  all. 
But—" 

She  drove  a  few  feet  farther  —  an  appreciable  interval  at 
four  miles  an  hour  —  and  ended,  rather  wistfully:  — 

"I  wondered  if  you  were  n't  keeping  it  —  for  another  rea 
son.  I  mean  —  just  because  you  did  n't  want  to  come  to  re 
turn  it." 

"Why,  what  an  idea!  Ridiculous!—" 

"Mr.  Garrott,  you  know  you  have  seemed  to  —  since  — " 

"  You  've  no  idea  how  overworked  I  am  these  days  —  never 
a  minute  to  call  my  own!  Why,  there's  your  cousin,  Mary 
Wing,  —  one  of  my  best  friends,  —  and  I  have  n't  so  much 
as  laid  eyes  on  her  —  but  once  —  since  'way  before  Christ 
mas!  Think  of  it!  And  that's—" 

"You  used  to  be  willing  to  take  a  little  time  for  pleasure," 
said  Angela,  looking  away  from  him,  "  before  —  we  had  that 
awful  misunderstanding." 

"  It  gets  worse  and  worse  all  the  time ! "  said  Charles,  hastily. 
"That's  what  I  say!  That's  writing!  —  yes,  indeed!  —  in 
exorable  —  once  let  it  into  your  life,  and  it  eats  it  all  up  — 

197 


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forcing  a  man  to  be  a  —  a  hermit  for  life,  you  might  say.  But 
there  was  something  I  was  very  anxious  to  tell  you,  Miss 
Flower.  Let  me  see  ...  slipped  me  for  the  moment.  Ah  — 
oh,  yes!  —  did  you  know  Donald  Manford's  back  again?" 

"Oh!  No,  is  he?  I  had  n't  heard." 

"Yes,  old  Donald  got  back  Sunday,  full  of  pride  and 
honors.  .  .  ." 

And  then  into  the  eyes  of  the  worried  young  man  there 
shot  a  faint  gleam. 

He  had  mentioned  Donald  absolutely  at  random,  but  the 
moment  he  heard  the  youth's  name  on  the  air,  an  idea  ex 
ploded  in  his  brain,  leaving  behind  a  dull  hope.  Unlike  him 
self,  Donald  was  a  marrying  man.  Why,  when  you  stopped  to 
think  of  it,  was  n't  Angela  the  very  girl  for  him?  And  why, 
then,  should  n't  he,  Charles,  frankly  reversing  his  purposes 
at  the  Helen  Carson  luncheon  last  month,  bring  together  once 
more  these  two  nice,  simple  cousins  of  the  too-modern  Mary, 
just  as  he  had  done  that  night  at  the  Redmantle  Club,  when 
all  the  trouble  had  begun? 

Of  course,  at  the  moment,  Charles's  "psychology"  was 
not  quite  so  elaborate  as  this.  The  thought,  indeed,  flashed 
through  his  brain  in  purely  concrete  form,  thus:  "That's  it! 
I  'II  put  her  on  to  Donald." 

Forthwith,  he  launched  upon  a  voluble  talk,  an  address,  at 
once  extolling  Donald's  character  and  throwing  out  sugges 
tive  commentaries  upon  it:  how  Donald  had  come  home  in  the 
vein  of  a  boy  let  out  of  school,  seeming  to  feel  that  at  last 
his  playtime  had  come;  how  he  (so  different  from  himself, 
Charles)  openly  sought  and  hungered  for  pleasure  now,  was 
mad  for  some  good  times.  And,  observing  closely,  he  thought 
that  Miss  Angela  looked  interested  in  his  exposition,  too, 
though  hardly  so  interested  as  one  might  have  liked,  perhaps. 


Angela's    Business 


"Why,  I  did  n't  think  he  was  that  sort  of  person  at  all," 
said  she. 

"I've  never  seen  a  man  change  so  —  come  out  so  —  in  my 
life!  Landing  this  great  job,  you  know!  —  it's  taken  a  great 
weight  off  him.  And  then  the  thought  that  he  has  only  a  few 
weeks  more  at  home,  too  —  it's  really  revolutionized  his 
character!  Why,  Miss  Flower,  the  man's  all  but  quit  work! 
Really!  He  .  .  ." 

A  knocking  sense  of  disloyalty  —  to  Mary's  known  plans  — 
checked  him,  but  briefly.  What  was  that  to  him  now?  Had 
not  Mary  convinced  him,  once  and  for  all,  that  she  was  more 
than  competent  to  manage  her  own  affairs?  Deliberately,  the 
young  man  released  his  valuable  information :  — 

"Why,  he  leaves  his  office  every  afternoon  at  four  o'clock 
—  rain  or  shine  —  and  walks  up  Washington  Street,  abso 
lutely  hunting  for  somebody  to  come  and  give  him  a  little 
fun!  But  who  is  there  to  do  it?  He's  been  out  of  things  so 
long,  he  hardly  knows  anybody!  And  then,  too,  Donald, 
beneath  that  —  ah  —  standoffish  manner  of  his,  is  really  a 
shy  man.  What  he  needs  most,  really,  is  encouragement.  .  .  ." 

To  all  of  which  Angela's  final  reply  —  delivered  after  a 
slight  silence  —  was:  "You  seem  to  love  to  talk  about  Mr. 
Manford  to-day,  Mr.  Garrott."  And  then  she  took  the  wind 
out  of  his  sails  completely  by  saying :  — 

"I  don't  think  of  Mr.  Manford  really  as  a  friend  of  mine. 
You  know  —  I  often  think  you  're  the  only  real  friend  I  've 
made,  since  we  left  Mitchellton." 

During  the  remainder  of  the  drive,  Charles  thought  it  best 
to  affect  an  amiable  absent  silence.  But  that  gained  him 
nothing,  any  more  than  his  treachery  to  Donald  and  Miss 
Carson.  Before  she  released  him  at  the  now  too  familiar  cor 
ner  near  Berringer's,  the  girl  said,  simply  and  seriously:  — 

199 


Angela's    Business 


"  Mr.  Garrott  —  are  n't  you  really  ever  coining  to  see  me 
again?" 

Why  again?  When  had  he  ever  been  to  see  her?  And  why 
all  this  talk  of  a  misunderstanding?  He  had  never  misunder 
stood  anything. 

"Why,  yes!  —  yes,  certainly!  —  when  I  ever  find  a  minute 
to  see  anybody!  Ha,  ha!  But  —  when  that'll  be  — " 

It  was  her  great  merit  in  his  eyes  that  she  had  never  really 
reproached  him.  It  seemed  to  cost  her  an  effort  to  go  on:  — 

"You've  never  forgiven  me  for  —  for  saying  what  I  did 
that  night.  You  know  you  have  n't!  But  if  you  'd  ever  come 
to  see  me  —  so  that  we  could  really  have  a  talk  —  I  feel  I 
could  make  you  understand  that  I  —  never  really  meant 
it!" 

The  maiden's  gaze  at  once  embarrassed  and  vastly  de 
pressed  him.  In  it  he  read,  as  if  spread  upon  a  bill-board,  her 
soft  certainty  that,  though  he  himself  might  not  realize  it  yet, 
he  was  her  man.  .  .  . 

In  the  restaurant,  the  four  or  five  entirely  masculine  per 
sons  with  whom  Charles  commonly  lunched  took  note  of  his 
peculiar  gloom.  It  was  their  whim  to  assume  that  a  valued 
pupil  had  just  discharged  Charles  without  a  character.  Theirs 
was  a  crude  and  noisy  wit.  But  the  tutor  ignored,  hardly 
heard,  their  gibes.  He  sat  withdrawn  and  silent  over  his 
chicken  hash  (for  which  Berringer  had  no  less  than  fourteen 
different  names).  And  before  his  fascinated  mind's  eye  there 
unrolled  an  endless  vista  of  driving  duets,  with  the  gen 
tle  feminine  pressure  closing  down  ever  more  and  more  ir 
resistibly  upon  him. 

What  to  do,  what  to  do?  That  was  the  question.  There  did 
not  seem  to  be  a  corner  of  the  city  now  where  the  Fordette 
did  not  go  poking  its  ugly  mug. 

200 


Angela's    Business 


All  very  well  to  say:  Be  bold,  be  cold.  Refuse  under  any 
conditions  to  get  into  the  Fordette.  That,  to  him,  was  simply 
not  a  possible  line  of  conduct.  Inability  to  be  successfully 
rude  to  people,  even  under  the  most  favorable  circumstances, 
had  long  been  recognized  as  the  damnable  flaw  in  his  character. 
And  as  to  this  very  peculiar  case  —  how  could  the  roughest 
boor,  the  most  thoroughgoing  cad,  repel  and  affront  a  nice 
young  girl  whom  he  voluntarily  kissed  but  last  month  —  one 
whose  only  fault,  after  all,  was  a  fatal  constancy? 

Now  he  fairly  confronted  the  two  distinct  and  fundamental 
weaknesses  in  his  position:  the  moral  and  the  mechanical,  the 
Kiss  and  the  Fordette.  A  just  thinker  always,  he  would  not 
deny,  even  now,  that  it  was  his  own  free-will  act  that  had 
first  altered  everything.  If  he  took  the  ground  that  he  had 
kissed,  with  warmth,  a  girl  he  cared  nothing  on  earth  about, 
what  sort  of  person  did  that  make  him?  No  better  than  a 
Frenchman,  daft  about  La  Femme.  She,  it  could  not  be  gain 
said,  really  paid  him  a  finer  compliment,  took  the  nobler 
view  of  him,  when  she  assumed  that  those  salutes  had  signi 
fied  something.  She  was  not  without  right  to  her  naive  confi 
dence.  And  now  that  she  had  this  maidenly  expectancy 
firmly  mounted  upon  a  gasoline  engine  —  do  what  he  would, 
he  could  not  escape  a  ripening  affection.  She  would  get  a  call 
out  of  him  yet.  There  would  be  another  bridge-party,  and 
he  would  be  at  it.  And  after  the  bridge-party.  .  .  . 

Alone  with  his  thoughts  among  his  noisy  companions, 
Charles  drew  a  handkerchief  across  his  brow.  A  Home  was, 
indeed,  a  sweet  and  beautiful  thing.  But  the  positive  fact 
was  that  he,  Charles,  did  NOT  want  one  made  for  him  at  pres 
ent.  And  still,  the  soft  advance  that  leads  straight  to  Homes 
pressed  resistlessly  on. 

Great  Heavens,  what  a  price  to  pay  for  one  little  kiss  on  a 

201 


Angela's    Business 


sofa!  .  .  .  Well,  two  or  three  little  bits  of  kisses,  then.  What 
a  price !  What  was  the  reason  of  it,  where  the  justice? 

He  spoke  aloud,  for  almost  the  first  time  at  his  lunch, 
with  sudden  heat:  "I  believe  I  '11  move  away  from  this 
town!" 

The  remark  elicited  a  shout  of  laughter.  In  the  midst  of  it, 
the  tutor  rose  and  stalked  intently  away.  It  had  just  occurred 
to  him  that  he  might  force  a  quarrel  on  Angela,  on  some 
trivial  pretext :  pretend  that  she  had  hurt  his  feelings  in  some 
way  —  about  not  returning  that  book  of  hers,  perhaps  — 
something  like  that.  The  old  dodge:  a  million  men  must  have 
worked  it.  But  even  as  he  dallied  with  the  notion,  Charles 
knew  very  well  that  the  ruthless  strength  was  not  in  him. 
Besides,  his  thought  now  had  taken  a  cold  retrospective  turn, 
interesting  in  its  way:  the  sight  of  Talbott  Maxon,  grinning 
there,  had  roused  old  associations  in  him.  Talbott  was  a  good 
one  to  laugh!  But  the  Oldmixon  girls  had  had  him  laughing 
out  of  the  other  corner  of  his  mouth. 

How  had  he  ever  lost  sight  of  that  little  affair? 

People  like  G.  B.  Shaw  might  go  about  pretending  that  they 
had  invented  the  idea  of  Woman  the  Pursuer.  But  the  fact 
was  that  he,  Charles,  had  personally  discovered  the  elementary 
truth  before  he  was  out  of  his  teens.  Experience,  you  would 
have  said,  had  driven  it  home  unforgettably.  All  the  way 
up  to  the  old  lady's  who  was  studying  French,  tucked  away 
in  an  obscure  corner  of  the  street-car,  Charles  was  soberly 
going  back  over  the  instructive  time  he  and  Talbott  had  had 
with  a  group  of  Temporary  Spinsters  —  all  of  five  years  ago  — 
and  wondering  how  under  the  sun  he  had  ever  allowed  its 
lessons  to  grow  dim. 

That  old  trouble  had  started  casually,  too  —  how  sharply 
it  all  came  back  now!  At  a  dance  it  was,  when  Talbott,  who 

202 


Angela's    Business 


was  also  fatally  kind-hearted  (and  was  pushed  by  a  chaperon 
from  behind,  besides),  had  invited  Susie  Oldmixon  to  abandon 
the  wall  for  the  waltz.  Of  course,  he  had  been  stuck  for  four 
dances  for  his  pains:  of  course  Miss  Oldmixon  —  a  womanly 
girl  —  had  misconceived  the  character  of  that  long  set-to;  of 
course  she  invited  him  to  a  party  in  a  day  or  two.  Then  it  was 
that  Talbott,  sensing  how  things  were  going,  had  introduced 
him,  Charles,  much  as  a  cowardly  conscript  offers  a  substi 
tute.  But  the  base  act  had  gained  him  nothing ;  the  Oldmixons 
produced  a  friend  of  theirs,  Sarah  Freed,  —  how  he  came  to 
loathe  the  sight  of  Sarah!  —  and  upon  the  instant,  he  and 
Talbott  found  themselves  caught  up  together  in  a  literally 
endless  chain  of  little  engagements,  usually  thus:  a  party,  a 
party-call,  another  party,  etc.  Naturally,  they  had  early  had 
the  bright  thought  of  breaking  the  chain  by  not  paying  any 
party-call ;  and  at  once,  this  very  same  kind  of  soft  pressure  was 
put  upon  their  weak  chivalrousness:  "Ethel  thinks  you  must 
be  mad  with  her,"  one  or  the  other  of  the  loyal  sisters  would 
say.  "You  know  you've  never  paid  your  party-call."  If  they 
yielded,  and  went  and  paid  their  party-call,  it  was  not  con 
sidered  that  they  had  then  discharged  their  duty  like  soldiers; 
no,  by  an  inexplicable  shift  in  the  point  of  view,  the  call  was 
straightway  viewed  as  a  personal  "attention,"  and  they  were 
at  once  invited  to  another  party.  So  it  went:  these  girls  had 
reduced  to  an  intuitive  science  the  feminine  instinct  for  making 
one  thing  lead  to  another.  Of  course  they  were  always  offering 
to  teach  him  and  Talbott  something,  as  auction  or  the  Boston; 
always  trying  to  lend  them  something  —  like  "Marna"  — 
which  would  have  to  be  returned.  And  even  if  all  the  regula 
tion  pitfalls  were  fairly  side-stepped,  it  really  accomplished 
nothing,  for  in  that  case  Sarah  or  the  Oldmixons  were  sure  to 
frave  a  Visitor.  Even  Sarah  Freed,  of  course,  rather  hesitated 

203 


Angela's    Business 


to  ring  you  up  on  the  telephone  and  say:  "Please,  please, 
come  to  see  me !  You  know  I  have  n't  a  thing  in  the  world  to 
do  but  sit  and  think  about  men,  and  you  're  the  only  man  who 
has  spoken  politely  to  me  since  1908."  But  none  of  the  vir 
gins  minded  at  all  ringing  you  up  and  saying,  "Do  come  to 
see  my  Visitor." 

The  worst  thing  in  it  all  (reflected  Charles,  with  worriment, 
in  the  street-car)  was  that  Sarah  and  the  Oldmixons  were  far 
from  being  brazen  hussies;  they  were  really  nice  girls,  only 
sharpened  a  little  by  tedium  and  the  creeping  fear  of  "  failure." 
Odd  though  it  seemed,  they  actually  remained  almost  com 
pletely  unconscious  of  their  own  processes.  And  still  it  had 
taken  him  and  Talbott  nearly  a  year  to  get  out  of  the  soft 
vicious  circle;  and  still  he  remembered  distinctly  that  they  had 
then  agreed  upon  the  following  as  their  invariable  rule  of  con 
duct,  thenceforward:  Never  be  polite  to  a  womanly  girl,  unless 
positive  you  want  to  marry  her. 

A  year!  And  of  course  he  had  never  kissed  Sarah  and  the 
Oldmixons,  either.  .  .  . 

Charles  went  on  his  rounds  in  a  humor  of  fatalistic  despond 
ence.  The  mood  proved  premature,  decidedly:  while  there  is 
life,  there  is  hope.  And  it  seemed  that  he,  by  too  much  think 
ing,  had  wrongly  discounted  the  promising  aspects  of  his  case. 
He  had  builded  rather  better  than  he  knew. 

When  his  lesson  with  Miss  Grace  was  over,  at  four-thirty 
that  afternoon,  the  tutor  said  gloomily:  — 

"I  can't  stay  for  tea  to-day.  But  I  think  I'll  just  stand 
here,  and  look  out  of  the  window  a  little  while." 

Of  course,  after  yesterday,  there  could  be  no  more  tea-tak 
ing.  Equally  of  course,  caution  was  more  needed  than  ever. 
"Don't  wait  for  me,"  muttered  Charles,  reconnoitering,  to 
Miss  Grace.  And  then  he  forgot  her  entirely  as  his  eye,  shoot- 

204 


Angela's    Business 


ing  out  the  window,  fell  upon  Donald  Manford  sauntering 
carelessly  along,  over  the  sunny  street. 

From  the  Choristers'  window,  Charles  gazed  out  at  his 
young  friend  with  moroseness  and  moody  envy.  What  he  had 
told  Angela  about  this  youth  was  (by  chance)  almost  literally 
true.  Donald  —  hitherto  a  hard  worker,  through  Mary  Wing's 
unceasing  influence  —  was  visibly  relaxing  the  ties  he  was  so 
soon  to  sever;  he  had  come  home  in  distinctly  a  holiday 
humor.  And  a  lot  of  good  that  did  him,  Charles!  Donald 
walked  Washington  Street  there  with  utter  free-and-easiness, 
with  almost  insolent  impunity.  Dull,  lucky  Donald!  He, 
of  course,  did  not  have  the  devilish  gift;  Donald  kissed  no 
one.  No  one  viewed  Donald  as  her  own  true  man;  no  home- 
maker  chased  him  all  over  the  city  in  a  Fordette. 

Behind  him,  Miss  Grace  pushed  a  flat  button  on  the  wall 
and  said:  "Tea '11  be  ready  in  a  minute,  Mr.  Garrott.  You 
really  might  as  well  stay,  you  know,  as  stand  there  looking 
out  of  the  window." 

The  tutor  made  no  reply.  In  fact,  he  did  not  hear  Miss 
Grace.  By  strange  luck,  he  was  in  the  grip  of  an  extraordi 
nary,  a  truly  fascinating  experience.  Quite  suddenly,  his  ears 
had  been  captured  by  a  sound  from  the  street,  a  sound  that 
had  an  arresting  familiarity  among  all  other  sounds,  a  pe 
culiar  whirring,  a  rumbling,  and  a  snorting,  insistent,  grow 
ing  louder.  Upon  earth,  was  there  but  one  noise  like  that? 

Swifter  than  a  bullet,  Charles's  eyes  had  gone  speeding 
down  the  spacious  street.  And  his  heart  leapt  up  within  him 
as  they  lighted  upon  the  self-propelling  conveyance  approach 
ing —  but  half  a  block  away,  chugging  steadily  nearer.  .  .  . 

Yes,  his  word  to  the  wise  had  not  been  wholly  wasted,  it 
seemed.  There  rumbled  the  good  little  Fordette  after  uncon 
scious  Donald,  gaming  on  him,  gaining  almost  rapidly.  .  .  . 

205 


Angela's    Business 


"Mr.  Garrott,  what  are  you  looking  at?" 

"Oh!  ...  Nothing,"  said  the  tutor  in  a  muffled  voice. 

But  in  truth,  he  was  looking,  with  breathless  interest,  at 
the  fairest  sight  seen  by  him  in  many  a  long  day.  Safe  behind 
the  Choristers'  curtains,  with  general  joy,  with  the  acute  de 
lights  of  a  born  strategist,  Charles  saw  what  had  so  often 
happened  to  him,  happen  now  to  poor  old  Donald. 

By  odd  coincidence,  it  fell  out  that  the  re-meeting  of  Mary 
Wing's  two  cousins  took  place  within  fifty  feet  of  the  Chor 
isters'  window.  What  more  natural  than  that  Angela,  in  the 
moment  of  passing  her  home-come  friend,  should  look  over 
her  shoulder  and  speak  a  pleasant  greeting?  Or  that  Donald, 
surprised  and  civil,  should  unconsciously  take  a  responsive 
step  or  two  toward  the  sudden  speaker  of  the  greeting?  What 
more  certain  than  death  or  taxes  but  that  the  Fordette  should 
thereupon  come  to  a  halt  —  which  it  did  so  easily  and  nat 
urally?  (Oh,  how  perfectly  simple  it  all  was,  as  you  stood 
off  and  watched,  how  gentle  and  friendly  and  inexorable!) 
Casual  talk  seemed  to  spring  up :  how  easily  Charles,  peeping 
with  starting  eyes  between  the  parted  curtains,  could  imagine 
it  all!  —  "I'm  so  glad  to  see  you  back!  I've  wanted  so  to 
congratulate  you  on  your  great  success!  I  'm  crazy  to  hear 
about  Wyoming! "  And  presently  those  crucial  words,  so  in 
nocent-looking,  so  sweet:  "Mr.  Manford,  won't  you  let  me," 
etc.  "Truly  I  'm  just  out  for  a  drive."  And  —  sure  enough 
—  oh,  by  George !  Hooray  !  There  was  the  poor  fool  grinning ; 
there  he  was  compressing  himself,  clambering  right  into  the 
jaws.  Ah,  there,  Miss  Mary!  .  .  .  And  there  the  two  young 
people  went  snorting  away  up  the  street :  perfectly  normally, 
though  something  in  Donald's  cramped  position,  his  long  legs 
hunched  up  to  his  chin,  did  oddly  suggest  a  captive,  seized 
and  bound. 

206 


Angela's    Business 


The  tutor  astonished  Miss  Grace  by  bursting  into  a  wild 
roar  of  laughter. 

But  of  course,  he  understood,  on  cool  analysis,  that  this 
really  settled  nothing.  That  exciting  spectacle,  which  seemed 
to  make  the  whole  process  so  extremely  concrete,  represented 
a  hope,  nothing  more.  And  the  more  this  hope  was  scrutin 
ized,  the  less  substantial  it  seemed  to  become.  Walking  safely 
home  in  the  golden  afternoon,  Charles  suddenly  recalled,  with 
cold  annoyance,  a  remark  Donald  had  made,  after  his  second 
walk 'with  Angela  in  November:  "Charlie,  she  worries  me." 
And  Angela,  for  her  part,  —  though  of  course  womanly,  and 
hence  agreeably  plastic  in  her  affections,  —  really  seemed 
hardly  more  attracted  to  Donald,  as  yet.  Charles  thought 
he  knew  the  reason,  too.  With  a  fresh  chill,  he  recalled  the 
look  the  girl  had  given  him,  on  the  corner  near  Berringer's, 
to-day. 

Had  he  really  "put  her  on  "  to  Donald  even  in  the  remotest 
degree?  Was  it  not  highly  probable  that  she,  patrolling  Wash 
ington  Street  at  four-thirty,  had  been  looking,  not  for  Donald, 
but  for  another? 

Of  course,  there  could  not  be  the  slightest  doubt  that — 
for  the  present,  at  least  —  Angela  preferred  him  to  Donald, 
infinitely,  unreasonably.  And  Angela  usually  got  what  she 
wanted,  too,  it  seemed.  For  example,  she  had  wanted  to 
move  her  family  from  Mitchellton  to  this  city,  where  he, 
Charles,  lived.  And  she  had  moved. 


XV 


HE  fell  instinctively  into  a  small  manoeuvre,  which 
was  merely  this:  that  he  quietly  shifted  forward  his 
public  itinerary  by  quarter  of  an  hour.  Next  day, 
he  started  rapidly  toward  the  street-cars  at  quarter  before 
one,  and  shot  out  of  Miss  Grace's  at  quarter  past  four, 
sharp.  Ultimate  detection  was  certain,  of  course;  but  for 
the  moment  the  trifling  ruse  did  seem  to  win  a  hardly  hoped- 
for  respite  in  the  headlong  courtship.  Neither  on  Friday,  nor 
again  on  Monday,  was  the  Home-Making  Fordette  so  much 
as  seen.  And  the  next  disturbance  of  the  authority's  delicate 
social  scales,  and  of  the  author's  Line,  came,  as  might  be  said, 
from  precisely  the  opposite  direction.  « 

In  the  Studio,  matters  had  continued  to  progress  backward. 
Once  here,  and  the  door  safely  shut,  Charles  had  been  steadily 
at  work,  the  hymeneal  shadow  put  resolutely  from  his  mind. 
No  writer's  time,  he  had  pledged  himself ,  should  go  to  somber 
meditations  on  the  cosmic  consequences  of  a  kiss,  still  less  to 
fruitless  bitterness  concerning  wasted  write-ups,  the  hardness 
of  Egoettes,  etc.  Day  by  day,  he  had  wooed  that  subtle  calm 
of  the  spirit  which  is  the  bread  and  meat  of  authors;  night  by 
night,  expended  himself  in  the  service  of  pure  Letters.  And  it 
had  all  been  for  nothing. 

Contrary  to  explicit  resolve,  in  short,  he  had  been  making 
a  fresh  attempt  at  his  new  novel,  hoping  —  rather  weakly 
—  that  his  mind  was  n't  quite  so  unsettled  as  he  secretly 
knew  it  was.  And,  once  more,  he  had  been  well  punished  for 
his  rashness.  Symptoms  of  weakness  having  developed  in 
creasingly  through  the  week  just  past,  on  Monday  evening 

208 


Angela's    Business 


Charles  took  his  medicine,  just  before  supper.  Ten  thousand 
words  of  brand-new  manuscript  lay  in  his  drawer  there;  and 
he  would  be  lucky  if  he  could  save  a  thousand  of  them  for  the 
novel  that  should  be. 

Of  the  "line"  taken  by  this  second  abortive  effort,  the  less 
said  the  better.  It  suffices  to  suggest  that  if  Mary  Wing  had 
been  a  totally  different  sort  of  person,  it  might  never  have 
been  undertaken  at  all. 

Of  all  ways  of  spending  the  time  known  among  men,  un 
questionably  the  most  abominable,  the  most  nerve-wrecking 
and  devilish,  is  Thinking  up  a  Book.  Charles  smoked  box 
after  box  of  cigarettes,  could  n't  sleep  at  night,  talked  in  his 
sleep  when  he  did,  and  was  growing  a  scowl  between  his  brows 
almost  as  dark  as  poor  Two-Book  McGee's  —  the  interesting 
Type  that  was  leading  its  own  life  and  wished  it  were  n't.  The 
final  conviction  of  the  worthlessness  of  his  work  was  hardly 
calculated  to  improve  the  young  man's  state  of  mind.  He  was, 
indeed,  profoundly  discouraged  and  concerned.  For  ten  weeks 
now  he  had  been  struggling  to  isolate  a  point  of  view  which 
would  at  once  "carry"  all  his  newer  observations  on  his  Sub 
ject,  and  command  the  support  of  his  unqualified  conviction. 
And  to-night  he  seemed  further  away  from  his  goal  than  he  had 
been  the  day  he  finished  "Bondwomen." 

However,  what  brought  Charles's  humor  to  a  sudden  head 
this  evening,  what  precipitated  the  fury  in  which  Donald 
Manford  found  him  —  Donald,  entering  so  happy  and  fine  in 
the  evening  regalia  which  the  match-making  Mary  seemed  to 
clap  on  him  every  night  nowadays  —  by  chance  had  not  to  do 
with  his  own  book  at  all,  but  with  another's. 

In  short,  the  young  author,  very  injudiciously  in  view  of  his 
resolve  to  trunk  of  Egoettes  no  more,  had  been  dipping  into 
"Mama." 

209 


Angela's    Business 


This  book  of  Angela's  had  long  lain  as  a  plague  on  the  mind 
of  Charles.  For  a  space,  he  had  not  returned  the  book  because 
of  the  estrangement,  or  misunderstanding;  for  another  space, 
because  of  the  swiftly  ripening  intimacy,  compelling  the  gen 
eral  policy  of  lying  low;  and  now  a  large  fresh  obstacle  had 
risen,  in  the  girl's  unfortunate  remarks  directly  connecting  the 
return  of  her  book  with  a  call.  Whether,  after  that,  he  could 
harden  his  heart  to  slip  "Marna"  back  to  her  by  the  hand  of 
the  Judge  —  without  any  appreciative  blossoms,  needless  to 
say  —  remained  to  be  seen.  So  long  as  the  situation  remained 
as  it  was,  Charles  had  decided  simply  not  to  take  up  the  worry 
at  all. 

Hence  Angela's  book  rested,  gathering  dust  on  the  Studio 
mantel.  And,  chancing  to  come  on  it  in  his  moody  pacings 
after  supper,  the  author  had  picked  it  up,  in  mere  resentment 
at  its  being  there.  Standing  hostilely,  he  permitted  himself  to 
skim  a  few  pages  of  the  stuff,  toward  the  end.  Next,  with  grow 
ing  intention,  he  looked  into  the  middle.  And  finally,  he  sat 
frankly  down  with  "Marna"  in  the  Judge's  new  easy-chair. 

It  had  occurred  to  him  that  it  was  probably  his  professional 
duty  to  see  what  sort  of  line  on  the  Unrest  the  other  fellows 
were  taking  these  days.  This  book  here  was  enjoying  an  im 
mense  vogue;  every  newspaper  reminded  you  that  it  was  the 
Best  Selling  Book  in  America.  What  truth,  then,  did  it  have  to 
tell?  Or  —  put  more  simply  —  it  may  be  that  Charles  had 
merely  fallen  a  weak  victim  to  the  true  writer's  continual 
temptation  and  longing,  viz.:  to  clutch  at  anything,  any 
thing,  that  will  keep  him  from  having  to  write,  or  think  up. 

Angela's  book  (which  was  so  strangely  unlike  Angela)  had 
come  from  the  typewriter  of  a  brilliant  and  industrious  British 
Thinker.  From  the  " literary  criticism"  and  publisher's  ad 
vertising  that  he  read  —  and  he  seemed  to  read  little  else  in 

210 


Angela's    Business 


these  days — Charles  had  already  gathered  that  "Mama" 
followed  that  simple  "ultra-modern"  line  which  to  him,  with 
his  expanding  knowledge,  now  seemed  so  oddly  old-fashioned. 
In  his  standing  skim  just  now,  he  had  noted,  with  quickening 
distaste,  how  easily  Mama  accomplished  a  glorious  Career: 
as,  indeed,  a  girl  has  small  excuse  for  not  doing,  when  she  has 
an  able  author  working  for  her  night  and  day.  In  particular,  he 
observed  that  her  "  demonstrating  experiment  in  freer  forms  of 
union"  turned  out  far  more  happily  than  poor  unauthored 
Flora  Trevenna's.  As  well  as  Charles  could  make  out, 
Mama's  swain  not  only  had  a  wife  living  when  she  met  him, 
but  was  engaged  to  another  woman  besides.  But  when  the 
splendid  girl  said  to  him,  on  page  478:  "What  a  joy,  beloved, 
to  strike  back  at  the  grubby  little  people  who  're  trying  to 
fetter  the  love-spirit!  Ah,  but  I'm  glad  you're  married!"  — 
after  this,  every  one  knew  that  it  was  all  up  with  De  Bevoies,  who, 
being  a  poet,  could  hardly  be  expected  to  argue  back  at  agree 
able  talk  of  this  sort.  (Mama  had  met  him  at  an  anarchist 
"social";  he  was  stunningly  modern,  and  borrowed  two 
pounds  from  her  the  first  thing  next  morning.)  Not  long  after 
the  talkative  but  Higher  Honeymoon  on  the  Breton  Coast, 
Mrs.  De  Bevoies  died,  with  thoughtful  promptness,  and  it  was 
noted  that  the  New  couple  at  once  adopted  the  old-estab 
lished  form  of  union,  after  all,  and  (of  course)  quickly  became 
the  toasts  of  London. 

"George!  .  .  .  How  easy  writing  would  be,"  thought  Charles, 
with  great  indignation  —  "if  only  the  truth  were  as  simple  as 
that!" 

And  then,  seated  under  the  lamp  Wallie  Flower  had  so  skill 
fully  repaired,  he  turned  to  page  i,  intent  upon  getting  this 
other  fellow's  heroine,  and  her  Career,  at  the  point  of  origin. 
The  Twexhams,  he  learned,  lived  quietly,  thirty  miles  from 

211 


Angela's    Business 


London.  (Their  address,  if  it  is  of  the  smallest  interest,  was 
Fernleigh  Cottage,  the  Priory,  Dean's  Highgate,  Lower- 
Minter-on-the-Mavern,  Essex.)  Mama  Twexham  had  the 
striking  beauty  conventional  among  the  Freewomen  of  fiction. 
Having  had  a  year  at  college,  attended  several  gatherings  in 
the  Redmantle  Club  vein,  and  read  three  or  more  books  in 
which  unmarried  women  told  the  truth  about  Life,  she  inevit 
ably  reached  the  conclusion  that  it  was  her  duty  to  make  her 
self  free.  Put  in  another  way,  she  saw  that  it  was  her  duty 
to  go  to  London.  For,  of  course,  "young  women  of  genius" 
understand  perfectly  that  freedom  is  a  matter  of  geography,  a 
metropolitan  consummation,  as  we  might  term  it,  and  would 
properly  smile  at  the  antediluvian  who  maintained  that  peo 
ple  can  be  free  in  the  suburbs,  if  they  can  be  anywhere.  Thus 
Marna  smiled  at  the  old  fogey,  her  father,  who  opposed  her 
going  to  London  to  be  free.  It  seemed  that  the  old  chap,  for 
reasons  Charles  could  not  fathom,  actually  wanted  to  keep  the 
girl  with  him.  "There  are  dangers  in  London  that  a  good 
woman  knows  nothing  of,"  he  said,  warningly;  but  Marna 
eyed  him  so  knowingly  that  he  changed  his  tune  at  once.  "You 
are  all  we  have  left,  Marny  dear,"  he  wheedled.  "Don't  go 
away  from  us — yet,  at  any  rate."  "Why  is  it  assumed  that  a 
woman  who  does  not  choose  to  marry  is  left?"  asked  the  wise 
strong  girl;  and  while  her  father  scratched  his  head  over  this 
poser,  she  continued,  firm  but  kind:  "Really,  you  know,  Dad, 
the  idea  that  people  have  got  to  spend  their  lives  together 
merely  because  of  an  accidental  birth  relation  —  really,  you 
know,  all  that 's  jolly  well  played  out.  We  Ve  proved  quite  too 
awfully  much  about  the  beastly  repressive  influence  of  the 
family-tie."  "But  your  sister!  —  poor  invalid  Muriel!" 
pleaded  old  Twexham.  "She  loves  you  so  much,  she  so  de 
pendent  on  you!  It  will  kill  her  to  — "  Mama's  smile,  check- 

212 


Angela's    Business 


ing  his  maundering,  was  a  great  credit  to  her  self-control  (the 
author  said).  To  set  up  playing  checkers  with  a  neurasthenic 
spinster,  against  a  soul's  sacred  duty  to  itself  and  mankind! 
"Can't  you  really  see,  Dad,"  she  said,  quite  patiently,  "that  a 
trained  nurse  can  look  after  my  sister  much  more  efficiently 
than  I  can?  "  "It  is  n't  that  —  exactly,"  faltered  the  moss-back 
parent.  "  It 's  your  love  she  needs.  And  —  I  feel  that  you  do 
belong  to  us,  Marny  dear!  I  feel  that—"  "No,  father,"  re 
plied  the  glorious  creature,  gazing  out  the  oriel  window,  over 
the  terrace,  rose-garden,  etc.,  and  into  the  morning  sun.  "I 
belong  —  out  there!  Such  small  abilities  as  I  may  possess," 
said  Mama  with  exquisite  modesty,  "belong  to  the  Race. 
Such  small  contributions  as  I  may  be  able  to  make  to  the 
thought  of  my  time,  I  dare  not  withhold.  I  cannot  be  weakly 
sentimental — and  stay,"  she  concluded,  with  some  feeling. 
(And  indeed  Dean's  Highgate  was  a  quiet,  dull  place;  Lower- 
Minter-on-the-Mavern,  also.)  Presently,  the  old  fellow  broke 
down  and  wept,  and  then  Mama,  repelled,  eyeing  him  as  if  he 
were  something  odd  and  decidedly  contemptible,said  firmly  . .  . 

"Nasty  little  beast!"  cried  Charles  Garrott,  aloud. 

He  leapt  from  Judge  Blenso's  easy-chair,  and  glared  about 
like  one  desirous  of  something  to  kick,  and  that  right  quickly. 
Then,  with  a  flashing  understanding  of  his  need,  he  went 
springing  toward  the  Studio  window.  And  passionately  he 
flung  the  window  wide,  and  passionately  he  hurled  the  best- 
selling  book  in  America  forth  into  the  winter  night. 

"Faugh!"  shouted  Charles. 

Down  in  dark  Mason  Street,  the  shooting  "Marna"  struck 
the  limb  of  a  large  tree,  and  caroming  violently,  bounded  back 
against  a  passing  old  gentleman  in  a  black  felt  hat,  who  looked 
like  a  Confederate  veteran.  The  old  'un,  starting  with  annoy 
ance,  clapped  a  hand  to  his  shoulder,  and  gazed  round  and  up; 

213 


Angela's    Business 


then,  suddenly  catching  sight  of  the  young  man  standing  at 
the  third-story  window,  he  shouted  something  in  a  high  angry- 
voice,  and  brandished  an  aged  arm  with  menace.  But  the 
young  man  merely  continued  to  stand  there,  silently  scowling 
down  at  him.  So  then  the  old  gentleman,  composing  himself 
but  resolved  that  he  should  not  be  smitten  for  nothing,  picked 
up  Miss  Angela  Flower's  new  book  from  the  sidewalk  before 
hun,  dusted  it  carefully  with  an  experienced  handkerchief,  and 
hobbled  away  with  it  into  the  darkness. 

"Disgusting  little  Egoette!"  said  Charles,  scowling  after 
him.  ..."  And  that 's  the  sort  of  stuff  that  passes  for  think 
ing  nowadays!  That's  the  stuff  our  women  are  reading, 
forming  their — " 

"Who  're  you  cussing  out  the  window,  Charlie?"  said  Don 
ald  Manford's  hearty  voice  behind  him. 

Charles  wheeled  sharply. 

He  resented  being  walked  in  on  this  way;  resented  all  com 
panionship  from  his  kind  just  now;  in  especial,  he  resented 
Donald  Manford's  contented,  care-free  face.  At  the  same 
time,  this  face  of  Donald's  awakened  other  and  different  emo 
tions,  relative  to  the  slim  hope  it  embodied,  and  enjoining 
tact,  some  cunning. 

So,  controlling  himself,  Charles  merely  said:  "Well? 
What  're  you  horning  in  here  for?  " 

"Dying  for  one  glimpse  of  your  sweet  phiz.  Nice  wel 
come!  "  laughed  the  young  engineer,  exuberantly.  "But  how'd 
you  ever  get  into  a  street-row,  Charlie,  out  of  your  third- 
story  window?" 

"Oh!  ...  Just  talking  to  myself.  Bad  habit  of  mine,"  he 
said,  with  an  effort.  "You're  rather  flossy  to-night!  —  out  to 
give  the  girls  a  treat,  I  gather.  Let 's  see.  German,  I  sup 
pose?" 

214 


Angela's    Business 


Laying  his  tall  hat  tenderly  on  the  Judge's  little  typewriter- 
table,  Donald  acknowledged  the  soft  impeachment. 

"  Well,  who 's  the  lucky  lady,  this  time?  —  Or  maybe  you  're 
stagging?" 

"Who,  me?  Not  on  your  life!  I  Ve  got  Miss  Carson  again — 
lucky  thing!" 

"Indeed,"  said  the  author,  coldly. 

"And  a  pippin  she  is  too!  Talk  about  clever,  Charlie!  By 
Jove,  there 's  a  girl  that  makes  a  fellow  use  his  cocoa  all  the 
time,  let  me  tell  you!" 

Charles  sat  down  heavily  at  his  writing-table,  and  lit  a 
cigarette.  Mary  Wing  managed  her  affairs  well,  indeed.  He 
spoke  with  mysterious  bitterness:  — 

"You  are  blossoming  out!  If  anybody 'd  told  me  last  year 
that  you  'd  be  praising  one  of  the  new  highbrow  sisters,  I  'd 
have  kicked  him  downstairs  for  a  liar." 

"When  a  girl  can  look  like  that,  my  boy  — " 

"Developing  into  a  regular  man-flirt  too,  are  n't  you? 
Last  I  heard  of  you,  you  were  driving  up  Washington  Street 
with  Miss  Flower." 

Instead  of  resenting  the  odious  epithet,  Donald's  face  was 
seen  to  assume  a  pleased  smirk. 

"  Ho !  —  had  your  spies  on  me,  have  you?  Why,  did  we  pass 
you  to-day?" 

Charles's  heart  seemed  to  leap  a  little.  "Why,  no,"  he  said, 
sweetly.  "I  was  speaking  of  one  day  last  week.  So  you  stole 
another  drive  to-day  —  you  sly  rascal!" 

"Don't  know  that  you'd  call  it  driving,  exactly.  Where 'd 
that  brother  of  hers  dig  the  little  four-wheeler,  d'  you  s'pose?  I 
thought  that  kind  were  extinct,  same  as  the  Dodo  — " 

"Why,  I  think  it's  a  very  nice  little  car,  Donald!  Small, 
old-fashioned,  yes  —  but  very  comfortable  and  —  easy-going. 

215 


Angela's    Business 


I  Ve  —  ah  —  had  a  —  a  number  of  pleasant  drives  in  it.  The 
real  trouble  is,"  said  Charles,  with  immense  carelessness,  "she 
honestly  does  n't  know  how  to  manage  it  very  well  as  yet. 
And  I,  of  course,  don't  know  how  to  teach  her  —  unfor 
tunately." 

Having  seated  himself  in  Judge  Blenso's  chair,  Donald  was 
lighting,  with  a  lordly  air,  one  of  Judge  Blenso's  cigars;  the 
Judge  himself  being  at  his  club,  through  lack  of  interest  in  the 
Studio.  Extinguishing  his  match  by  waving  it  languidly  back 
and  forth,  the  youth  said,  with  a  faint  reminiscent  smile:  — 

"Well,  I  gave  her  a  pretty  good  lesson  this  afternoon,  far  as 
that  goes.  Had  a  very  fairish  time,  too.  Nice  little  girl,  she  is." 

The  author  gazed,  with  a  sort  of  nervous  incredulity.  He 
laughed  hurriedly. 

"Nice!  —  well,  I  should  say  so!  She  's  —  she  's  charming! 
You  '11  have  to  look  pretty  sharp  if  you  want  any  more  drives 
there  —  too  much  competition !  But,  of  course,  she  may  not 
be  bookish  enough,  to  suit  your  new  taste  — " 

"Oh,  bookish,  no.  She's  not  that  sort.  I'll  teU  you  what 
your  little  friend  is,  Charlie,"  said  the  young  engineer,  with  an 
air  of  insufferable  conceit.  "She's  what  7  call  a  womanly 
woman." 

Charles  averted  his  eyes.  This  simple  fool's  quick  response 
to  the  "putting  on"  treatment  almost  passed  belief.  Unques 
tionably,  Donald  was  far  more  receptive  to  feminine  influences 
now,  than  he  had  been  in  his  industrious  pre- Wyoming  days; 
again,  mere  use,  mere  custom  and  propinquity,  were  famous 
for  accomplishing  just  these  wonders.  Still,  Charles's  philo 
sophic  over-mind,  contrasting  this  grin  on  Donald's  face  with 
that  unflattering  remark  of  his  last  November,  threw  out  a 
different  concept,  viz.:  that  perseverance  in  a  woman  is  a 
marvelous  thing. 

216 


Angela's    Business 


But  the  hope,  though  it  shot  up  delightfully,  was  a  thin  one 
yet.  Dull  Donald  went  on  knowingly:  — 

"  But  speaking  of  the  competition,  what 's  happened  to  you, 
old  horse?" 

"How  do  you  mean,  happened  to  me?" 

"Your  little  friend  says  you  used  to  meet  her  nearly  every 
day  for  a  drive,  but  now  you  have  n't  been  seen  for  days.  I 
told  her  you  'd  probably  changed  your  hours  a  little,  as  I  'd 
seen  you  at  lunch  earlier  than  — " 

"You  did?"  said  the  author,  looking  at  the  engineer  with 
unconcealed  annoyance.  "  Well,  you  were  mistaken,  that 's  all ! 
You  had  no  business  to  say  anything  of  the  sort.  Of  course, 
my  hours  may  vary  a  little  —  in  fact,  they  vary  a  good  deal. 
Great  heavens,  I  — " 

"Well,  don't  get  peevish  about  it!  —  friendly  tip  I  'm  giv 
ing  you,  that 's  all.  She  thinks  you  're  mad  with  her  —  do  you 
get  me?  Says  you  've  never  forgiven  her  for  something  she  said 
to  you  once  —  some  misunderstanding  you  had  —  you  know, 
I  guess — " 

"Why,  damnation,  we  never  had  any  misunderstanding! 
I'm  busy!  I  don't  undertake  to  start  to  lunch  at  a  certain 
particular  second  — " 

"Well,  don't  tell  it  to  me!"  said  Donald,  cheerfully.  "Trot 
along  and  explain  it  to  her,  that 's  the  way.  —  I  say,  Charlie  — 
change  the  subject  —  did  I  tell  you  what  old  Gebhardt  said  to 
me  the  first  day  we  looked  over  the  plans  ?  About  my  concrete 
bridge  over  Sankey  River?  " 

And  then  the  childish  egotistical  youth  was  off.  It  seemed, 
indeed,  that  the  monologue  ensuing  was  what  he  had  come  for; 
it  seemed  that  he  had  dressed  himself  one  hour  too  early  for 
the  German  with  just  this  most  agreeable  of  all  purposes  in  his 
mind:  to  sit  and  have  a  good  long  talk  about  himself.  Charles 

217 


Angela's    Business 


received  his  boastings  with  restless  boredom,  marking  meaning- 
lessly  on  the  pad  before  him,  moodily  biding  his  time.  He 
could  have  kicked  Donald  for  his  stupidity  in  mentioning  his 
trifling  change  of  hours;  but  of  course  his  need  was  to  get  the 
conversation  back  to  Angela  quietly,  without  arousing  the 
slightest  suspicion.  His  need  was  that  Donald  should  agree  to 
give  Angela  regular  lessons  in  driving  the  Fordette,  every  day 
through  the  lunch-hour. 

But  Donald,  happening  to  note  the  face  of  Big  Bill,  came 
suddenly  to  his  feet:  and  then,  as  suddenly,  gave  the  talk  an 
unlooked-for  turn. 

"I  say,  Charlie!  How  about  you  and  old  Blenso  for  the 
Wings'  apartment?" 

Charles's  head  came  slowly  round.   "How  about  what?" 

"  Dashed  sight  more  comfortable  than  up  your  two  flights 
here!" 

"The  Wings'  apartment  is  for  rent?" 

"  Did  n't  you  know  that,  old  stick-in-the-mud?  What 's  the 
matter  with  you?  Mary  's  been  hunting  a  tenant  for  two 
weeks." 

Charles,  finding  it  unnecessary  to  state  that  he  had  not  seen 
Mary  for  exactly  that  length  of  time,  —  barring  one  very- 
transient  meeting  on  the  street,  —  merely  indicated,  without 
any  polish,  that,  not  being  a  gadabout  ass  like  some,  he  made 
no  pretense  of  keeping  up  with  all  the  latest  tittle-tattle. 

He  then  asked,  in  a  voice  indicating  no  interest  in  the  sub 
ject:  "What 's  Mrs.  Wing  going  to  do?" 

"  Going  to  North  Carolina  to  live  with  Fanny." 

"With  Fanny!  ...  I  suppose  she  did  n't  consider  going  with 
Miss  Mary?" 

"Could  n't  stand  the  pressure.  Why,  New  York  would  kill 
her  off  like  a  fly!  And  besides,  she  does  n't  want  to  get  too 

218 


Angela's    Business 


far  away  from  the  Warders,  you  know.  Of  course,  Fanny  can't 
make  her  very  comfortable  just  now  —  but  we  talked  it  all 
over  and  that  seemed  the  best  arrangement,  all  round." 

"I  see." 

"Mary  can't  turn  back  now,  of  course.  Well,  Charlie,"  said 
Donald,  earnestly,  "  I  don't  hold  with  her  fool  notions,  and  all 
that,  but  hang  it  all!  —  she  's  no  ordinary  woman,  and  this  is 
no  ordinary  job.  Those  people  are  giving  her  two  assistants 
and  $5000  a  year.  What  d'  you  know  about  that  for  a  poor 
little  girl?" 

He  was  struggling  to  get  into  his  overcoat  without  "break 
ing"  his  shirt-front  —  going  at  once,  evidently.  But  Charles 
had  lost  sight  of  his  strategic  intentions. 

"Well,  how  about  you  two  old  chaps  for  the  furnished 
apartment  —  February  fifteenth,  if  you  want  it?" 

Charles  observed  that  he  could  n't  look  at  it.  Donald,  as  if 
only  stimulated  by  his  host's  taciturnity,  became  sentimental. 

"First  Mary,  then  Mrs.  Wing,  then  me  —  this  is  going  to 
be  a  break-up,  Charlie,  do  you  realize  it?  I  'm  beginning  to 
feel  it,  too,  let  me  tell  you!  Jove,"  said  Donald,  putting  on  his 
shining  head-piece  and  bringing  the  conversation  back  to  him 
self  simultaneously  —  "now  that  I  come  right  down  to  it,  / 
don't  want  to  leave  this  good  old  town!" 

He  departed,  to  his  unconscious  match-making.  Charles, 
left  alone,  merely  sat  on  at  his  table.  And  all  that  he  thought 
of  Angela  Flower  now  was  of  an  insignificant  remark  she  had 
let  fall,  the  first  time  they  had  walked  together:  "Mr.  Garrott, 
do  you  know  who  Mama  reminded  me  of?  Somebody  you 
admire  a  great  deal.  ..." 

And  then  for  half  an  hour,  his  writer's  mind  insisted  on 
working  over  and  over  that  detestable  conversation  between 
Marna  and  her  father,  and  changing  it  a  little,  just  a  little 

219 


Angela's    Business 


touch  here  and  there,  to  make  it  fit  smoothly  upon  Mrs.  Whig 
and  Mary.  .  .  . 

"I  tell  you,"  said  the  lonely  authority,  suddenly,  bringing 
his  fist  down  on  the  table  with  a  thump,  — "  this  whole  Move 
ment 's  a  failure  if  it  lessens  woman's  lovableness!  I  tell  you 
the  whole  object  of  this  Movement  is  to  make  women  more 
lovable!" 

For  he,  of  course,  had  never  thought  —  like  the  author  of 
"  Mania  "  for  example  —  that  passionate  love  was  the  only  sort 
of  love  worth  mentioning.  In  that  narrow  sense,  hi  her  suffi 
ciently  cheap  faculty  for  stirring  the  senses  of  men,  it  was 
clear  that  woman,  whatever  she  did  or  left  undone,  would 
always  remain  "lovable."  But  as  to  love  in  broad  and  human 
terms  —  well  (to  keep  the  subject  wholly  impersonal) ;  could 
any  one  in  his  senses  call  Mama  a  lovable  being  ?  No,  her 
creator,  in  his  determination  to  show  how  strong  and  "free" 
she  was,  had  quite  unconsciously  made  her  a  harsh  and  vain 
self -worshiper,  revolting  to  decent  persons.  Had  he,  as  we 
might  say,  thus  inadvertently  given  the  whole  thing  away? 
Was  it  finally  true  that  a  woman  could  not  claim  and  lead  her 
Own  Life,  except  at  a  heavy  price  —  paid  down  in  her  best 
treasure?  Was  the  ruthless  Career-Maker  but  the  logical 
other-form  of  the  waiting,  the  too  pursuing,  Maker  of  Homes? 

From  his  drawer,  Charles  presently  pulled  out  the  former 
exercise-book  which  had  enjoyed  the  great  rise  in  the  world. 
In  this  book,  he  had  written  no  sentence  since  his  remembered 
Notes  on  Flora  Trevenna.  Now  he  set  down  with  a  firm 
hand: — 

What  is  called  the  Woman's  Movement  is  seen,  in  the  last 
analysis,  to  be  only  every  woman's  struggle  between  two  irrecon 
cilable  impulses  in  her  own  nature. 

Having  written  that  sentence,  the  young  man  stared  at  it 

220 


Angela's    Business 


long.  To  him  it  was  like  a  bright  beam  of  light,  turned  upon 
the  roots  of  his  peculiar  problem.  For  if  these  two  impulses 
were  in  truth  irreconcilable,  why  need  he  go  on  struggling  to 
reconcile  them  in  a  heroine  he  could  unreservedly  admire? 


XVI 

WITH  the  sun  of  a  new  noon,  with  the  recurring 
need  of  obtaining  sustenance  from  one's  environ 
ment,  there  came  again  the  more  practical  prob 
lems  of  this  weary  world. 

At  ten  minutes  past  one  on  this  day,  Tuesday,  Charles  went 
slipping  from  the  house  of  the  little  Deming  boys  to  that  of 
the  old  lady  who  was  studying  French.  She  lived,  luckily,  but 
three  doors  away.  She  was  a  very  lively  old  lady,  and  possessed 
her  tutor's  high  regard.  But  that  she  might  represent  help  to 
him,  that  she  could  personify  the  tutelary  god  of  Bachelors 
rushing  at  last  to  his  aid,  had  simply  never  crossed  his 
mind. 

The  old  lady's  regular  lesson-hour  was,  of  course,  two- 
thirty  o'clock.  But,  as  it  happened,  she  had  had  her  last  in 
struction  in  the  French  language  for  some  time  to  come,  it 
having  popped  into  her  head,  and  that  of  the  old  gentleman 
her  husband,  to  go  to  Palm  Beach  for  a  three  weeks'  vacation. 
Hence  her  tutor's  presence  in  her  drawing-room  at  this  un 
wonted  hour  seemed  to  be  due  to  mere  chance  (though  who 
knows?).  In  short,  as  he  saw  it,  he  had  merely  "stopped  by" 
to  deliver  a  list  of  irregular  verbs,  which  the  old  lady  was  to 
master  completely  while  at  the  Beach. 

Having  stopped,  Charles  did  not  start  again  upon  the  in 
stant:  far  from  it.  Friday's  and  Monday's  run  of  luck  had  not 
been  expected  to  keep  up  indefinitely,  at  the  best.  And  Don 
ald's  blundering  remark  betraying  his  ruse  had  inevitably  sug 
gested  the  idea  of  experimenting  a  bit  with  opposite  tactics,  to 

222 


Angela's    Business 


wit:  quietly  turning  his  schedule  backward,  for  variety's  sake, 
and  starting  to  lunch  very  late.  Thus  it  was  that  Charles, 
having  said  all  he  had  to  say  to  the  old  lady,  lingered  to  say 
it  all  again,  and  again,  clinging  verbosely  to  his  oldest  living 
pupil  as  it  were,  while  one  eye  shot  perpetually  out  the  front 
window,  close  beside  which  he  had  taken  up  his  position. 

For  the  third  time,  the  old  lady  promised  to  be  studious  on 
her  holiday. 

"Don't  you  remember  how  well  I  knew  the  plurals  of  the 
-ou  nouns  yesterday?"  said  she,  chipper  as  a  boy.  "Well,  my 
husband  had  heard  them  every  one  to  me  the  night  before!  — 
that  was  how  I  did  it!  Well,  don't  you  see,  I  '11  make  him 
hear  me  the  verbs  every  afternoon  while  he 's  taking  his  nap  — 
over  and  over!" 

"  Exactly,  ma'am.  Do  just  that.  Have  him  hear  them  over 
and  over  —  every  afternoon.  That 's  the  only  way  really  to 
master  them  —  the  only  possible  way.  And  as  I  say  —  be 
sure  to  take  along  your  dictionary  and  your  Fontaine's 
'  Fables,'  and  read  three  or  four  pages  every  day  —  except 
Sunday.  I  said  that  just  now,  I  know.  But,  ma'am,  it 's  one 
of  those  things  that  —  ah  —  can't  be  said  too  often  — " 

Here  the  tutor's  eye,  reconnoitering  out  the  window  again, 
fell  upon  a  motor-car  just  coming  to  a  standstill  before  the  old 
lady's  door.  He  started,  nervously.  But,  of  course,  this  was 
not  the  Fordette:  it  was  five  times  too  big,  at  least. 

And  he  said,  in  a  quickened  voice:  "Whose  car  is  that 
standing  out  there?" 

"Why,  mine,  of  course!  Eustace  stops  for  orders  before  go 
ing  down  to  bring  my  husband  up  and  I  just  sign  to  him  out  of 
the  window  if  there 's  nothing.  Indeed  I  hoped  you  would  n't 
make  me  read  my  '  Fables '  while  I  was  away,  but  I  will  if  you 
say  so,  for  of  course  I  'm  going  to  learn  French.  And  you  take 

223 


Angela's    Business 


care  of  yourself,  young  man.  You  have  n't  looked  well  to  me 
for  several  days." 

"I'm  not  quite  well,  ma'am,  I  fear,"  said  Charles.  "I  was 
just  thinking  I  'd  better  let  Eustace  drive  me  down  with  him, 
if  you  don't  mind.  I  —  ah  —  scarcely  feel  like  walking  to-day." 

"Of  course.  And  have  him  bring  you  up  again  when  he 
takes  my  husband  back,  why  don't  you?  My  dear  young  man, 
I  reproach  myself.  I  'd  have  had  him  call  for  you  at  the  Dem- 
ings'  and  take  you  down  every  day,  but  you  know  you  always 
said  you  loved  to  walk." 

"  I  did  —  I  used  to  —  but  —  ah  —  I  rather  think  I  've  been 
overdoing  it,  of  late.  I  've  been  walking  more  than  is  good  for 
me.  Well!  —  thank  you  very  much.  I'll  go  and  get  right 
in,  shall  I?" 

Having  wished  his  aged  pupil  a  happy  journey  once  more, 
Charles  started  toward  the  door,  much  pleased  with  his  lucky 
stroke.  And  then,  all  at  once,  a  splendid  idea  burst  upon  him, 
a  vast  and  brilliant  possibility.  And  in  exactly  the  same  in 
stant,  he  heard  the  chipper  voice  of  the  old  lady  speaking 
again  behind  him,  rather  thoughtfully:  — 

"I  wish  I  could  persuade  you  to  use  my  car  altogether  while 
we  're  away.  .  .  .  But  I  suppose  you  'd  think  that  fearfully — 
fearfully  effete!" 

"WHAT?" 

It  must  have  seemed  odd  to  her,  the  instantaneousness  with 
which  her  tutor  sprang  round.  And  then  he  began  to  move 
back  toward  her,  very  slowly,  round  unwinking  eyes  glued 
upon  her. 

"Ah  —  what  did  you  say  ? " 

"You  look  astounded.  I  suppose  you're  offended  at  the 
suggestion.  Now,  really  —  why  not  take  my  car  while  I  'm 
away?"  said  the  old  lady.  (What  a  dear,  what  a  darling  old 

224 


Angela's    Business 


lady  she  was,  to  be  sure!)  "Why  are  you  young  men  so  reck 
less  with  your  health,  breaking  it  down  with  all  this  foolish 
walking,  up  and  down  — " 

"Oh,  ma'am!"  stammered  Charles.  "I  — I  hardly  know 
what  to  say.  I  'm  not  offended  in  the  least  —  feeling  as  I  do  at 
present.  But  I  —  I  really  — " 

"Then  111  make  you  do  it!"  she  said,  with  the  greatest 
energy.  "I'm  going  to  exert  all  my  will-power  —  I  'm  chock 
full  of  it,  I  warn  you!  —  and  make  you  use  the  car  regularly 
from  now  on,  and  stop  this  walking.  Promise  me!  I'll  have 
Eustace  report  to  you  every  morning  for  his  orders,  and  you 
are  to  use  him  as  your  own  ..." 

The  tutor  stood  like  a  man  entranced.  Before  his  mind's 
eye  there  were  unrolling  the  most  enchanting  pictures:  pictures 
of  the  same  series  that  had  fascinated  Angela's  mind's  eye 
when  her  brother  had  offered  her  the  Fordette,  but  of  precisely 
the  opposite  intention;  pictures  of  himself  whizzing  securely 
from  point  to  point,  here  or  there  at  his  careless  ease,  all 
walking  henceforth  reduced  to  the  mere  hurried  crossing  of 
sidewalks.  .  .  . 

"But  I  —  I'm  afraid  it  would  be  an  imposition!  I  don't 
deny  it  would  be  a  —  a  pleasure  —  a  benefit  —  feeling  as  I  — " 

"Then that's  settled!  Imposition,  nonsense!  As  it  happens, 
you  will  be  doing  us  a  favor.  Why,  was  n't  my  husband  say 
ing  only  last  night  that  Eustace,  having  nobody  at  all  to  look 
after  him,  was  certain  to  spend  these  three  weeks  in  one  long 
spree,  and  be  worn  to  a  shadow  when  we  get  back?  His  habits 
are  so  unfortunate,  I  warn  you  about  that  — " 

"It's  so  —  awfully  —  kind  of  you,  ma'am!  I  hardly  know 
how  to — " 

"Not  another  word!  —  leave  all  the  rest  to  me.  And  you 
really  don't  look  well,  young  man.  Now,  shall  I  have  Bruce 

225 


Angela's    Business 


make  you  something,  —  oh,  very  nice,  —  before  you  start 
down?  Oh,  why,  bless  you,  I  take  a  julep  myself  whenever  I 
feel  the  least  bit  like  it!" 

Then  the  ardor  of  his  gratitude  really  touched  the  old  lady, 
even  though  it  seemed  excessive  for  her  small  courtesy.  Later, 
looking  out  the  window,  to  sign  to  Eustace,  she  saw  that  the 
young  man  was  actually  laughing  to  himself  with  pleasure,  as 
he  went  down  the  front  steps.  She  thought  him  a  very  strange 
young  man. 

He  gave  his  machine-god  standing  orders,  which,  after  all, 
proved  simple  enough.  Eustace  and  the  Big  Six  were  to  pick 
him  up  at  the  little  Deming  boys'  every  day  at  one  o'clock, 
and  drive  him  to  lunch;  Eustace  and  the  Big  Six  were  to  call 
for  him  at  Mrs.  Herman's  every  afternoon  at  half -past  three, 
and  take  him  to  and  from  the  Choristers'.  Those,  positively, 
were  the  only  danger-points,  these  the  small  arrangements  by 
which  peril  was  to  be  circumvented.  And  he  had  not  overrated 
the  value  of  his  brilliant  gift  from  fortune;  the  arrangements, 
being  made,  were  executed  with  the  happiest  success.  In  the 
fine  big  limousine  of  the  old  lady  (la  grande  jolie  limousine  de 
la  vieille)  Charles  pursued  his  daily  rounds  in  complete  secur 
ity,  and  he  hardly  saw  the  shadow  of  another  meeting  now. 

Or  rather,  there  was  the  possibility  of  but  one  more  meet 
ing;  and,  that  scarcely  seemed  to  matter,  now  that  he  had  so 
clearly  won  back  his  voluntary  celibacy. 

At  Saltman's  bookstore,  he  had  purchased  a  fresh  copy  of 
the  odious  "Marna,"  and  in  his  new  kindness  and  good-will 
toward  all,  he  finally  resolved  to  return  the  book  in  person, 
and  to  ask  for  Angela  at  the  door,  to  boot.  Utter  freedom  of 
the  city  upheld  his  native  dislike  for  being  a  mere  rude  boor. 
And  by  one  simple  venture,  he  could  honorably  liquidate  all 

226 


Angela's    Business 


claims,  pay  at  one  stroke  all  the  various  calls  demanded  of  him: 
the  book-call,  the  party-call,  and  the  call  in  acknowledgment 
of  the  Kiss. 

Even  if  Angela  should  happen  to  be  at  home  when  he  called, 
the  isolated  meeting  could  hardly  lead  to  trouble.  But,  after 
all,  of  course,  the  point  was  to  fulfill  rather  the  letter  of  a  call 
than  its  essential  spirit.  Charles  thought  it  decidedly  for  the 
best  that  Angela  should  not  be  at  home  at  the  time.  Thus  he 
further  procrastinated,  awaiting  an  afternoon  so  sweet  and 
balmy  that  every  owner  of  a  self-propelling  vehicle  would  be 
morally  certain  to  be  out  in  it. 

And  then,  while  he  so  dallied  about  the  Call,  while  his  own 
days  continued  to  reel  off  smooth  as  clockwork,  a  faint  new 
cloud  began  to  steal  over  his  first  careless  happiness.  Having 
finally  saved  himself,  the  unheroic  bachelor  felt  his  deadened 
consideration  for  others  slowly  and  reluctantly  stirring  into  life. 

The  first  time  he  in  his  speedy  limousine  passed  captive 
Donald  in  the  Fordette,  Charles  was  even  more  pleased  than 
he  had  been  that  other  day,  at  Miss  Grace's  window.  By 
chance,  he  overhauled  the  little  conveyance  on  the  second  day 
of  the  new  era,  as  he  shot  away  from  the  Choristers'  at  half- 
past  four  o'clock;  and,  captivated  by  the  sight  of  the  simple 
ton  engineer  in  his  own  old  place,  he  could  not  resist  leaning 
forward  as  he  drew  abreast,  knocking  on  the  window  and 
waving  gayly  to  the  two  nice  normal  cousins  of  Mary.  He  saw 
that  Angela,  recognizing  him,  gave  him  one  swift  surprised 
stare.  And  then  the  old  lady's  Big  Six  leapt  by  her,  as  the 
limited  leaps  by  a  tank  in  the  night,  and  he  sat  back  convulsed 
with  a  brilliant  diplomat's  delights. 

He,  indeed,  had  put  her  on.  Clearer  and  clearer  it  grew  that 
he  could  beat  Mary  Wing  at  match-making,  if  at  nothing  else 
under  the  sun.  .  .  .  Let  her  look  to  herself! 

227 


Angela's    Business 


But  the  second  time  Charles  had  this  interesting  experience 
—  just  two  days  later,  on  his  drive  to  Berringer's  —  he  did 
not  knock  on  the  window,  or  laugh,  or  even  smile.  No,  this 
time  he  sat  still  on  his  luxurious  seat,  looking  straight  ahead. 
And  presently  he  found  himself  arguing,  very  earnestly  and 
conscientiously,  and  somewhat  as  follows:  — 

While  it  might  be  true  that  for  the  moment  Angela  liked 
him  best  (entirely  owing  to  the  tender  feelings  aroused  by  the 
Kiss)  no  one  could  deny  that  a  match  between  her  and  Donald 
would  be  a  far  more  suitable  thing.  In  fact,  such  a  match 
would  really  be  very  suitable,  indeed,  whatever  cold-blooded 
eugenists  like  Mary  Wing  might  think.  Talk  as  you  liked, 
Donald  was  not  at  all  the  man  to  be  happy  with  a  girl  who 
firmly  and  continually  "made  a  fellow  use  his  cocoa."  On  the 
contrary,  Donald  was  the  mere  simple,  primitive  male  who 
wanted  a  woman  that  he  could  "protect,"  feel  superior  to  and 
be  coddled  and  attended  by.  And  any  fair-minded  person 
must  admit  that  Angela,  whatever  little  faults  or  foibles  she 
might  seem  to  have,  was  precisely  this  sort  of  girl.  Harsh 
nonsense  about  her  Sacred  Duty  to  the  Race  was  not  in  her. 

Did  she,  indeed,  have  any  faults  —  real  faults  of  character, 
that  is?  Womanly  though  she  was,  she  was  no  idler,  no  para 
site  like  Miss  Grace,  for  instance,  but  a  genuine  worker,  ac 
customed  to  pay  her  own  way  by  the  practice  of  a  highly  spe 
cialized  and  difficult  business.  This  business,  at  best,  was  a 
monotonous  and  grinding  one;  she  herself  was  a  stranger,  poor 
and  lonely.  Was  it  so  wicked,  then,  that  in  her  leisure-hour 
she  should  wish  to  drive  out  occasionally,  and  meet  her  young 
friends? 

The  Big  Six,  "Marna,"  the  matter  of  the  Wings'  flat,  doubt 
less  each  had  contributed  in  its  way  to  put  Angela  back  in  her 
true  light:  the  light  she  had  shone  in  before  the  days  of  the 

228 


Angela's    Business 


wooing.  Admit,  if  you  liked,  that  for  the  moment  her  purely 
feminine,  or  pursuing,  side  might  seem  to  be  just  a  little  over 
developed:  that,  argued  Charles,  was  but  a  temporary,  and 
really  a  proper  and  necessary  manifestation.  The  Home  that 
Angela  was  at  present  engaged  in  making  was  Dr.  and  Mrs. 
Flower's  Home.  The  Will  in  things  had  it  that  every  girl 
should  have  a  Home  of  her  own  to  make.  There  lay  the  mo 
mentary  source  of  Unrest:  considered  rightly,  the  Fordette 
was  merely  the  ingenious  instrument  employed  by  the  Will  for 
working  out  its  high  designs.  Once  that  was  accomplished, 
once  Angela  was  established  in  her  own  little  nest  as  Donald's 
sweet  true  wife,  then,  beyond  doubt,  her  essentially  womanly 
side  would  at  once  spring  into  full  possession  of  her.  Then  she 
would  fairly  settle  to  her  life-work  of  making  her  own  Home, 
while  supplying  large  quantities  of  just  the  sort  of  beauty  and 
charm  that  engineers  appreciate  most. 

Moreover  (concluded  Charles's  argument  of  the  case)  mar 
riage  was  clearly  a  matter  where  quixotism  was  misplaced,  and 
a  man's  first  duty  was  to  himself.  And,  finally,  of  course  he 
would  never  have  put  her  on  to  Donald,  if  he  had  known  that 
the  old  lady  was  going  to  lend  him  her  limousine.  But  he  had 
not  known:  and  that  was  the  old  lady's  fault  if  anybody's. 

On  the  night  of  this  day,  by  chance,  —  the  day  of  Donald's 
known  fourth  drive  in  the  instrument  of  the  Will,  —  as 
Charles  lay  prone  upon  the  Studio  lounge,  feebly  thinking  up, 
Judge  Blenso  suddenly  opened  the  Studio  door  and  said: 
"Charles!  A  lady  at  the  'phone!"  Instantly  coming  to  an 
elbow,  Charles  inquired  who  this  lady  might  be;  and  the 
Judge  (whose  manner  toward  his  relative  had  markedly 
changed,  since  Charles  was  known  to  have  abandoned  his  ex 
ercises  and  foregone  his  affair  of  honor)  replied  with  great  cold 
ness:  "  It's  Miss  Rose.  Come  along!"  "  Miss  Rose?  "  repeated 

229 


Angela's    Business 


Charles,  slowly  beginning  to  rise.  "Why,  I  don't  — "  "Yes, 
yes,  I  said!  Miss  Rose!  No!  —  let  me  see!  Miss  Flower  — 
something  of  the  sort!  Good  gad,  how  long 're  you  going  to 
keep  her  waiting?"  But  Charles,  remembering  the  promised 
bridge-party  in  a  flash,  said:  "I  'm  sick,  Judge,"  and  lay  back 
on  the  lounge  forthwith.  "Ah  —  just  say,  please,  that  you 
found  me  lying .  down  —  not  well  at  all.  She  might  leave  a 
message,  if  necessary."  To  which  the  Judge  replied,  dis 
gusted:  "I  don't  wonder  you're  sick,  the  sickenin'  life  you 
lead!  By  gad,  sir!  —  can't  even  walk!  ..." 

No  message  came  back  other  than  that  Miss  Flower  was 
sorry  to  hear  he  was  n't  well.  But  the  little  incident,  though 
nothing  came  of  it,  showed  clearly  that  she  was  n't  going  to 
give  him  up  without  a  struggle,  Donald  or  no.  He  could  never 
feel  completely  safe  until  she  was  married,  and  that  was  the 
truth.  And  he  still  had  that  cursed  book  to  return,  too. 

But  it  seemed  that  his  higher  nature,  once  aroused,  would 
not  go  quietly  back  to  sleep  again.  The  first  glad  selfish  days 
were  over.  When,  on  the  Tuesday  following,  he  again  saw 
Donald  as  Angela's  willing  captive,  when,  shooting  by,  he  ob 
served  the  fatuous  youth  ogling  and  smirking  over  his  predica 
ment,  as  much  as  to  say  that  there  was  no  such  person  as 
Helen  Carson,  then  Charles's  face  became  very  grave,  his  look 
intensely  thoughtful.  And  when  he  reached  Berringer's  that 
day,  he  ordered  —  sure  enough  —  "Wait  for  me,  Eustace." 
And  when  he  emerged  from  Berringer's,  at  a  little  before  two, 
he  said,  in  the  face  of  all  resolves:  — 

"To  Olive  and  Washington  Streets,  Eustace.  And  then 
turn  and  go  slowly  out  Dean  Street,  toward  Lee  Grammar 
School." 


XVII 

PARTLY  because  she  was  not  ready  to  resign  her  place  in 
the  schools,  partly,  perhaps,  to  heighten  the  dramatic 
stinging  quality  of  what  she  called  her  "brilliant  re 
venge,"  Mary  Wing  had  kept  her  great  coup  a  secret  for  the 
present.    So  she,  famous  wherever  weekly  periodicals  were 
read  round  the  world,  honored  officer-elect  of  a  powerful  na 
tional  organization,  walked  daily,  in  sun  and  rain,  to  a  gram 
mar  school  as  before. 

As  to  looks  and  appearance,  Charles  had  always  recognized 
Mary  as  one  of  the  variable  women.  She  was  not  indifferent 
on  those  subjects,  he  judged,  but  the  utilitarian  supremacy  of 
work  in  her  life  commonly  produced  that  effect.  Mary  rarely 
went  to  parties  any  more;  but  at  her  flat  in  Olive  Street  she 
often  enough  entertained  at  dinner,  strategically,  a  person  or 
two  of  consequence  in  the  educational  or  political  world. 
Charles  (being,  of  course,  of  not  the  slightest  help  to  anybody) 
had  never  been  invited  to  but  one  of  these  little  dinners.  On 
that  solitary  occasion,  the  look  and  air  of  his  friend  in  evening 
dress  had  considerably  surprised  him,  and  in  several  other 
ways,  including  the  dinner,  he  had  absorbed  agreeable  impres 
sions  of  Mary  not  tallying  with  other  impressions.  However, 
pretty  clothes  and  pretty  manner  were  deemed  too  good  for 
every  day,  it  seemed;  for  the  realities,  Mary  dressed  as  plainly 
as  she  acted.  And  now,  trudging  homeward  along  this  slightly 
squalid  street,  she  looked,  it  must  be  admitted,  not  like  a 
shining  celebrity  at  all,  but  just  like  an  ordinary  person,  a 
school-teacher,  and  rather  a  fatigued  one  at  that. 

231 


Angela's    Business 


So,  at  least,  thought  the  author  of  the  write-ups,  catching 
sight  of  her  through  the  glass  over  Eustace's  shoulder,  noting 
the  somewhat  droopy  manner  of  her  walk.  But  he  reflected, 
there  was  no  satisfying  some  people.  And  hastily  clutching  up 
the  speaking-tube  of  the  old  lady,  he  gave  the  order  which 
brought  his  great  car  to  a  standstill;  and  so  stepped  forth 
upon  the  sunny  sidewalk,  just  in  front  of  her. 

The  General  Secretary  looked  up,  with  a  small  start  at  find 
ing  herself  intercepted.  She  saw  Charles  Garrott,  and  her  face 
changed  perceptibly,  though  under  what  impulse  he  could 
scarcely  have  said.  That  his  recent  demeanor  must  have 
seemed  slightly  puzzling  to  her,  the  young  man  was,  however, 
sufficiently  aware :  and  now  he  was  all  at  once  conscious  of  a 
want  of  ease  within  himself,  a  rare  and  odd  constraint. 

Hence  he  fell  instinctively  into  his  lightest  and  most  mask- 
like  tone:  "Well  met!  I  was  hoping  I  might  run  on  you 
somewhere  out  this  way.  Do  get  in  and  let  me  take  you 
home." 

Mary  accepted  at  once,  with  pleasure. 

"  But  whose  beautiful  car  is  this  you  Jre  using  now?  "  she 
went  on  easily.  "I  was  sure  I  saw  you  whiz  by  in  it  the  other 
day." 

"Oh,  this!  —  yes!  —  I  must  tell  you  about  it." 

So  due  explanations  covered  the  start  of  the  drive.  Estab 
lishing  his  famous  friend  in  the  old  lady's  limousine,  Charles 
told,  in  modified,  expurgated  form,  how  he  had  got  possession 
of  it.  For  Angela's  benefit,  he  had  lately  informed  Donald 
that  he  was  unwell  from  overwork:  that  was  why  he  had  to 
ride  in  a  closed  car  wherever  he  went.  Report  of  this  had  un 
luckily  reached  Mary,  it  seemed,  necessitating  more  explana 
tion:  that  he  was  not  sick  at  all,  unless  you  would  count  writer's 
sickness,  etc.,  etc. 

232 


Angela's    Business 


"And  this  saves  such  a  lot  of  time,  getting  around,  too  — 
which  is  no  small  thing." 

The  conclusion  of  the  explanation  was  followed  by  a  small 
silence:  scarcely  one  of  the  golden  sort,  but  rather  a  dearth  of 
conversation  such  as  had  once  been  rare  between  these  two. 
But  Mary,  whose  manner  seemed  as  usual,  or  perhaps  only  the 
least  bit  more  polite,  broke  it  at  once,  saying  cordially:  — 

"  So  you  have  an  extra  hour  for  your  own  work  now?  That  Js 
splendid!  And  how 's  your  new  novel  getting  on  ?" 

"Oh!  —  not  at  all,  thank  you!  I  Ve  made  two  starts,  but 
both  of  them  proved  false,  I  regret  to  state.  So  now  I  'm  back 
at  zero  again.  It 's  a  hard  business,  writing  a  book.  .  .  .  And 
as  far  as  I  can  make  out,  I  'm  specially  handicapped  by  having 
all  sorts  of  foolish  theories  as  to  what  a  novel  ought  to  be.  If 
I  were  only  a  good  plain  realist  now,  how  simple  life  would  be ! " 

His  tongue  loosened;  he  found  himself  embracing  the  chance 
topic,  so  hard  and  impersonal,  so  beautifully  remote  from 
everything  that  fretted  his  mind.  He  had  come,  magnani 
mously,  to  give  one  fair  warning  about  Donald;  but  no  doubt 
he  planned  it  that  his  warning  should  fall  casually,  half-buried 
in  other  talk.  There  was  such  a  thing  as  being  too  generous 
for  self-interest,  of  course.  Or  possibly  Charles  perceived  that 
the  sound  of  his  own  voice,  running  surely  along  on  a  subject 
of  which  he  knew  everything,  and  she  knew  nothing,  gave  him 
just  that  sense  of  easy  command  of  the  situation  which  his 
manly  need  demanded. 

Mary  had  said  courteously:  "You  think  realism  is  so  much 
easier  to  write?" 

"I  Ve  never  tried,  of  course  —  but  does  n't  it  impress  you 
so?  You  remember  old  Meredith  said  distinctly,  that  was 
the  cue  for  little  writers.  And  I  must  say  I  think  he  had  an 
idea  what  he  was  talking  about.  In  fact,"  continued  Charles, 

233 


Angela's    Business 


with  unwonted  loquacity,  while  his  limousine  rolled  rapidly, 
"if  I  were  old  and  generally  recognized  as  the  dean  of  Ameri 
can  novelists  —  kindly  do  not  laugh  —  and  was  visited  for 
counsel  by  a  young  writing  fellow  who  had  no  literary  abili 
ties  except  industry  —  why,  I  should  say  to  him  at  once,  '  My 
dear  young  man,  become  a  realist,  of  course.  That  is  really 
the  only  line  where  you  will  find  your  want  of  abilities  a  posi 
tive  advantage.  If  you  possess  any  shred  of  humor,  charm,  in 
sight,  sympathy,  idealism,  so-called,  —  above  all,  idealism,  — 
and  if  you  are  cursed  with  any  sense  of  form  and  unity,  and 
feel  that  a  story  ought  to  have  a  beginning  and  an  end,  and 
be  about  something  in  the  mean  time,  —  why,  trample  on  all 
this  as  you  would  on  so  many  snakes,'  I  should  say  to  him. 
'Get  it  fixed  firmly  in  your  dull  mind  that  life  is  dreary  and 
meaningless,  or  has  but  a  material  meaning,  if  you  like,  and  that 
sound  fiction  must  behave  accordingly.  Then,'  I  should  say 
to  my  young  friend,  '  if  you  will  but  choose  as  your  heroine 
a  young  girl  with  more  looks  than  character  —  and  not  neces 
sarily  such  a  lot  of  looks  either  —  who  comes  up  to  the  city  to 
get  on,  it  is  inconceivable  to  me  that  even  you  could  fail  to 
.score  a  great  realistic  success.'  — '  But,'  we  can  imagine  this 
fellow,  this  nonexistent  admirer  of  mine,  saying,  'I  don't  un 
derstand  you.  What  am  I,  as  a  creative  author,  to  put  in  to 
take  the  place  of  the  insight,  humor,  unity,  and  all  the  rest 
that  I  Ve  eliminated?'  'My  poor  boy,  I  've  just  told  you,'  I 
should  reply.  '  Industry  and  pessimism.  That  is  all  a  realist 
knows  and  all  he  needs  to  know.  You  tell  me  you  have  the  in 
dustry.  I  tell  you  that  the  pessimism  is  the  easiest  little  trick 
to  pick  up  in  the  world.'  But, "  said  Charles,  in  his  own  voice, 
"  I  fear,  Miss  Mary,  I  'm  putting  you  to  sleep  with  all  this 
musty  shop- talk  — " 

"Indeed,  no!  —  it 's  extremely  interesting,"  said  the  heroine 

234 


Angela's    Business 


of  the  write-ups,  very  civilly,  but  looking  straight  ahead.  "You 
don't  often  talk  about  your  work." 

"Have  n't  often  had  the  chance,"  thought  Charles.  And  if 
that  was  considerably  unjust,  he  did  not  seem  to  mind  at  all, 
but  rather  was  pleased  by  the  knowledge  that  Mary  observed 
his  copious  ironic  manner,  and  found  it  baffling  and  queer. 

"  Well,  —  in  conclusion,  as  you  public  speakers  say,  —  I 
was  only  going  to  add  that  I  did  n't  know  enough  to  swallow 
my  own  medicine.  The  trouble  seems  to  be  —  Well,  take 
the  horrible  thing  called  sentiment  now,  that  makes  a  sophisti 
cated  realist  so  sick.  I  look  about  me  and,  try  as  I  will,  I  seem 
to  see  the  disgusting  thing  very  much  alive  and  kicking  —  not 
something  made  up  by  a  fourth-class  writer  to  tickle  shopgirls, 
but  actually  playing  a  prominent  part  in  the  hard  world  round 
me,  all  the  time,  everywhere.  I  seem —  " 

"I  don't  see  how  any  one  could  deny  that!" 

"It  would  n't  seem  so,  would  it?"  said  Charles  respectfully, 
and  a  sudden  faint  gleam  came  into  his  eye.  "  But  really  is  n't 
that  what  they  do,  in  effect  ?  Here  am  I,  as  an  observer, 
seeing  men  and  women  all  round  me  doing  things  they  don't 
want  to  do,  giving  up  things  they  do  want  to  do"  —  did  his 
voice,  too,  acquire  a  thin  edge?  —  "for  immaterial  reasons  that 
can  only  be  traced  to  some  inner  ideal  —  hated  word !  And 
then  here  am  I,  as  a  writer,  required  to  deny  all  these  observa 
tions  of  mine  —  and  for  what  reason?  Merely,  as  far  as  I  can 
make  out,  to  keep  some  sour  chap  with  a  defective  liver,  prob 
ably  a  German  to  boot  —  why  are  Germans  so  pessimistic,  do 
you  know?  —  from  calling  me  a  sentimental  ass.  Of  course 
we  admit,"  he  prattled  on,  taking  note  of  the  passing  streets, 
"that  sentiment  is  weak  and  childish  and  Victorian,  and 
'  idealism '  is  the  screaming  joke  on  Western  civilization.  Still, 
is  n't  it  my  only  business  as  a  writer  to  find  out  whether  or 

235 


Angela's    Business 


not  these  contemptible  things  do  act  and  react  in  the  life  I 
see?  And  if  they  do  —  must  I  represent  the  contrary,  merely  to 
please  the  peculiar  taste  of  a  small  sad  school  that  has  no  God 
but  a  second-hand  mannerism  bagged  from  dear  old  Europe  ? 

—  By  the  way,  are  you  in  a  special  hurry  now? " 
"Why,  no.  Not  at  all." 

"Good!  — Eustace,"  called  Charles  through  the  tube, 
"drive  more  slowly." 

And  then,  feeling  himself  completely  master  of  the  situa 
tion  now,  the  young  man  said  with  quite  a  gay  laugh:  — 

"And  to  add  to  all  my  other  troubles,  I've  deliberately 
gone  and  taken  Woman  for  my  subject !  That  will  make  you 
smile!  You  remember  you  warned  me  in  advance  it  was  a 
theme  I  did  n't  know  the  first  thing  about." 

But  Mary  was  not  observed  to  smile. 

"I  did  say  that,  in  fun  once,"  she  said,  punctiliously,  after 
a  perceptible  pause  —  "but,  of  course,  I  did  n't  mean  it  —  in 
any  literal  sense.  Indeed,  I  think  — " 

"But  you  were  right  —  absolutely!  —  that's  just  what  I 
want  to  say!  I  'm  finding  out  more  and  more  every  day  how 
true  that  word  was.  This  whole  Movement  now  —  what  is  it? 
What 'sit  for?  Blest  if  I  know!  The  last  time  we  talked  about 
it,  you  may  remember,  I  took  the  ground  that  the  Movement 

—  or  what  I  supposed  was  the  Movement,  that  week  —  suf 
fered  by  confusing  itself  with  another  propaganda  it  had  n't  a 
thing  under  the  sun  to  do  with.   But  — " 

"No  —  what  propaganda?  I  don't  remember." 
"Oh!  — Personal  Liberty!  .  .  .  The  Cult  of  the  Ego,  per 
haps  you  might  call  it.  But,  of  course,  for  all  I  know,"  said 
the  light  masterful  Charles,  "  that  is  the  Movement,  and  al 
ways  has  been.  Only  last  week  I  lighted  on  a  new  formula  — 
sort  of  a  definition  —  to-morrow  I  '11  probably  discard  it  for 

236 


Angela's    Business 


another.  It 's  very  unsettling  —  for  my  writing,  you  know.  By 
the  way  —  can't  you  help  me  out  a  little?  What  would  be 
your  best  definition  of  the  Unrest  —  for  literary  purposes?" 

But  Mary,  with  a  carefulness  not  usual  to  her,  eluded  con 
troversy,  merely  saying  it  all  depended  on  how  you  looked  at 
it,  or  words  to  that  effect.  And  then  she  gave  him  a  small 
thrill  by  neatly  taking  his  bait. 

"But  what  is  your  new  definition?" 

"Oh,  that!  Definition's  too  grand  a  word,  of  course.  I 
merely  wondered  if  what  is  called  the  Woman's  Movement 
was  anything  more  than  a  projection  —  don't  you  know?  — 
of  an  everlasting  struggle  going  on  between  two  irreconcilable 
elements  in  every  woman's  nature." 

The  car  rolled  in  silence. 

"There's  a  pessimistic  definition  for  you!  For  I  suppose," 
said  the  friend  of  women,  and  could  no  longer  keep  the  seri 
ousness  out  of  his  voice,  "it  must  be  true  that  every  struggle 
implies  the  defeat  —  of  something.  .  .  .  Does  n't  it?  I  sup 
pose  we  can  really  never  get  away  from  the  sad  discovery  of 
childhood,  that  we  can't  eat  our  cake  and  have  it  too." 

"That 's  interesting!  But  I  don't  believe  I  understand  you 
altogether.  What  do  you  symbolize  as  the  cake?" 

She,  the  strong  and  successful,  had  turned  on  him  her  level 
arched  gaze,  intent  with  its  habitual  interrogativeness.  It  was 
instantly  clear  that,  though  she  might  be  struck  with  his  few 
remarks,  she  was  far  indeed  from  being  struck  personally.  And 
her  sudden  characteristic  look  was  to  him  like  a  hand  held  up, 
the  banner  of  her  independence  flung  out  —  and  just  in  time, 
too. 

Charles  laughed  mirthlessly.  He  was  aware  of  the  lameness 
of  his  reply. 

"  Exactly !  —  what?  It  all  depends  on  how  you  look  at  it,  as 

237 


Angela's    Business 


you  just  said.  And  I  seem  unable  to  look  at  it  the  same  way 
two  days  running.  .  .  .  Number  6  Olive  Street,  Eustace." 

Mary's  response  escaped  him. 

He  sat  staring  through  the  glass,  at  the  passing  sights,  a 
curious  sense  of  anti-climax  within,  a  strange  flat  feeling  of 
failure.  He  was  like  a  boy  who,  having  run  valiantly  at  a 
jump,  tamely  subsides  and  ducks  under  the  string.  What 
then?  Had  he  really  been  about  to  court  a  new  humiliation  by 
lecturing  Mary  Wing?  Telling  himself  that  he  came  generously 
to  warn  her  about  Donald,  had  he  actually  been  thinking  that 
he  would  discuss  the  personal  losses  involved  in  Leaving 
Home?  —  perhaps  by  some  frankness  even  bridge  the  gap  in 
the  old  friendship?  It  really  did  seem  that  some  such  thoughts 
must  have  lurked  in  his  mind,  judging  by  this  sense  within 
him  now. 

Then,  out  of  blankness  and  frustration,  the  young  man  felt 
slowly  rising  a  deep  exasperation,  a  mighty  grievance.  So  he 
shook  himself  at  once,  donned  his  mask  quickly  while  yet  he 
could,  and  said  in  quite  a  natural-seeming  voice :  — 

"But  I'm  afraid  I  Ve  bored  you  horribly  with  these  purely 
literary  troubles.  And,  by  the  way,  —  speaking  of  realism 
versus  romance  just  now,  —  how  are  Donald  and  Miss  Carson 
getting  on  these  days?" 

She  appeared  a  little  surprised  at  the  change  of  topic,  but 
replied  easily:  "Oh!  —  very  well,  indeed,  I  believe.  They're 
together  somewhere  nearly  every  evening.  —  But  why  — " 

"  Really!  That  relieves  me  —  knowing  your  serious  interest 
in  that  affair.  I  was  beginning  to  fear  Donald  might  be  wan 
dering  a  little  in  his  affections." 

"Wandering?  No  —  how  do  you  mean?" 

"Well,  he  has  seemed  quite  attentive  to  your  pretty  cousin 
of  late,  don't  you  think?" 

238 


Angela's    Business 


Then  the  Secretary  turned  her  head  again,  sharply.  And  it 
hardly  improved  Charles  Garrott's  frame  of  mind  to  perceive 
that,  of  all  he  had  said  in  the  strangely  talkative  drive,  this 
alone  had  really  touched  her:  this,  which  affected  her  personal 
purposes,  her  Own  ambitions. 

"Angela?  Why, not  that  I  know  of!  I  didn't  know  he'd 
seen  her  at  all  —  except  one  casual  meeting,  perhaps!" 

"I  've  happened  to  see  them  driving  together  from  time  to 
time,  as  I  plod  about  on  my  rounds.  But  no  doubt  it 's  all 
quite  casual,  as  you  say,  since  you  Ve  heard  nothing  about  it." 

"You  have?  But  please  tell  me!  —  where  have  you  seen 
them  together  —  and  when?  " 

He  cited  particulars  from  his  collection,  damaging  ones, 
though  perhaps  not  so  damaging  as  he  could  have  made  them 
had  not  self-interest  restrained.  Still,  something  in  him  was  not 
displeased  as  he  saw  his  old  friend's  concern  steadily  deepen 
ing. 

"I  'm  surprised,  and  —  frankly,  I  'm  sorry,"  she  said  slowly, 
at  the  end.  "Of  course  Angela's  a  dear  girl,  very  sweet  and 
attractive,  but  —  I  should  n't  like  Donald  to  see  too  much  of 
her  —  in  view  of  my  other  hopes !  I  've  had  good  reason  to 
think  that  he 's  really  interested  in  Helen,  and  she  in  him.  — 
Well!"  she  went  on,  after  a  small  pause,  "this  seems  to  re 
quire  some  diplomatic  management.  Donald  has  engagements 
for  every  evening  this  week  —  but  — " 

"  It 's  in  the  day  tune  that  he  meets  Miss  Flower.  At  least,  I 
don't  think  she  takes  the  Fordette  out  at  night." 

Beside  him  on  the  padded  seat,  Mary  sat  silent,  a  little 
pucker  between  the  dark  brows  which  set  such  a  question- 
mark  in  her  colorless  face.  Considering  her  formidable 
strength,  it  was  odd  how  all  but  ethereal,  how  sincerely  girlish, 
she  could  look  at  times. 

239 


Angela's    Business 


"Well,  Donald 's going  to  New  York  on  Friday,"  she  said, 
thoughtfully.  "  He 's  had  a  fine  offer  from  Blake  &  Steinert  — 
to  go  into  the  firm,  had  you  heard?  —  so  fine  that  I  think  he  'd 
have  taken  it,  and  thrown  over  Wyoming,  if  I  had  let  him! 
He  '11  be  gone  nearly  a  week.  Then,  about  the  tune  he  comes 
back,  I  Ve  arranged  to  have  him  invited  to  Creekside,  the 
Kingsleys'  place  at  Hatton,  for  a  week-end  party.  Helen's 
to  be  there  —  I  Ve  really  been  hoping  great  things  of  that. 
Meantime,"  she  rounded  up  efficiently,  "there  are  the  after 
noons.  Perhaps  I  could  start  him  to  playing  golf,  or  something 
of  that  sort.  ...  I  suppose,  of  course,  you  're  too  busy  to  — " 

"I?"  said  the  young  man,  hastily.  "Oh,  I  fear  I  can  offer 
nothing  to  rival  Miss  Angela's  attractions  just  now." 

"Does  it  look  as  serious  as  that?  Well,"  she  said,  with  a 
sort  of  determined  friendliness,  "all  the  more  reason  that  I 
should  like  to  have  your  help." 

He  hardly  repressed  a  sardonic  laugh.  "Are  you  asking  me 
to  help  you  ?  " 

"What's  so  extraordinary  about  that?" 

"Not  a  thing,  of  course.  I  was  n't  certain  I  'd  understood 
you,  that  was  all." 

But  it  appeared  that  the  idea  of  helping  this  young  woman 
had  ceased  to  have  the  smallest  pulling  power  now.  Rather, 
there  was  bitterness  in  the  thought  that  she  still  seemed 
ready  to  use  him  when  she  could. 

He  said,  with  savage  urbanity:  "Perhaps  you  might  get 
Donald  a  motor-cycle,  and  encourage  him  to  practice  up  as  a 
Speed  Demon." 

The  remark  was  received  in  entire  silence.  It  was  probably 
true  that  she  literally  did  not  understand  him.  All  the  same, 
his  displeasure  grew. 

"But  really,"  he  continued  sweetly,  "if  these  two  young 

240 


Angela's    Business 


people  are  so  strongly  attracted  to  each  other  —  love  at  first 
sight,  who  knows?  —  really,  is  it  judicious  to  interfere?  Don't 
you  believe  in  elective  affinities  at  all?" 

"As  a  matter  of  fact,  you  know,  Donald  was  greatly 
attracted  to  Helen,  at  first  sight.  And  as  for  Angela,  I  'm 
certain — " 

"You  see,"  he  interrupted,  stung  beyond  all  calculations, 
"my  personal  idea  is  that  Miss  Angela  would  probably  make 
him  a  more  suitable  wife." 

That  unwisdom  made  everything  worse  at  once;  for  Mary, 
after  one  glance  at  him  and  a  stare  out  the  window,  said  in  a 
changed,  "diplomatic"  tone:  "Well,  I  mustn't  let  you  mis 
understand  me,  at  any  rate.  You  know,  I  've  agreed  with  you 
perfectly,  all  along,  that  she 's  thoroughly  charming.  .  .  .  And, 
by  the  way,  she  likes  you  so  much,  too!" 

Charles  froze  instantly. 

"In  fact,  she  thinks  you're  much  more  attractive  than 
Donald  —  or  did,  just  a  little  while  ago.  I  have  her  word  for 
it.  So  if  she 's  seeing  a  good  deal  of  Donald  just  now,  I  don't 
believe  it 's  from  affinity,  necessarily!" 

"Indeed?" 

"  She  was  inquiring  about  you  the  last  time  I  saw  her  — 
saying  that  she  never  saw  you  now,  asking  if  you  ever  spoke 
of  her  to  me,  and  so  on.  I  told  her,  of  course,  you  did,  and  re 
peated  some  of  the  compliments  you  paid  her — " 

Again  he  interrupted  her,  now  with  some  slipping  of  his 
mask.  It  was  true,  to  be  just,  that  Mary  Wing  knew  nothing 
of  his  long  struggles  to  elude  the  Fordette.  Nevertheless,  her 
patent  desire  to  hand  him  back  to  it,  merely  by  way  of 
furthering  a  little  her  plans  for  Donald,  seemed  somehow  the 
last  straw.  A  friendly  reward  for  magnanimity  this!  And  it 
may  be  some  touch  of  purely  male  chagrin  enhanced  the  phil- 

241 


Angela's    Busi  n  e  s  s 


osophic  anger,  that  any  woman  should  be  thus  eager  to  pass 
on  him,  Charles,  to  another. 

"I  believe  my  remark  was  that  I  considered  Miss  Angela  a 
suitable  wife  for  Donald.  So  far  as  I  am  aware,  I  do  not  come 
into  the  conversation  at  all.  If  your  suggestion  is  that  I  should 
step  in  and  take  her  off  his  hands  —  in  order  to  help  you  — 
may  I  beg  you  to  put  such  an  idea  from  your  head,  once  and 
for  all?" 

It  was  clear  that  he  astonished  her:  made  her  indignant  as 
well.  Her  scrutiny  of  him  was  direct  and  sharp:  but  she  did 
not  speak  at  once,  as  if  weighing  her  words  or  firmly  counting 
ten,  and  when  she  did  speak,  her  manner  bore  evidences  of 
strong  control. 

"You  are  rather  puzzling  to-day.  I  should  like  to  know 
what  you  have  on  your  mind.  '  Take  her  off  his  hands ! '  Do 
you  really  think  that 's  quite  the  way  to  speak  of  a  girl  who — " 

"I  don't,  indeed.  But  the  idea  was  your  own,  was  it  not?" 

"Mine!  —  why,  how  can  you!  I  only  — " 

"Then  why  not  let  things  take  their  natural  course,  as  I 
suggested?" 

On  that,  turning  her  head  away  from  him,  she  said  quietly, 
too  quietly  in  fact:  "I  'm  afraid  you  would  n't  understand 
now,  if  I  were  to  tell  you." 

That  seemed  to  bring  the  conversation  to  a  natural  impasse. 
And  then  —  as  if  no  touch  were  to  be  wanting  from  this  em 
bittering  hour  —  at  just  this  instant,  as  Eustace  slowed  down 
to  make  his  curve  into  Olive  Street,  the  two  estranged  friends 
in  the  old  lady's  limousine  found  themselves  looking  together 
into  the  eyes  of  their  common  and  particular  enemy,  Mary's 
former  principal  at  the  High  School. 

Mr.  Mysinger,  her  conqueror  and  his  own,  no  less,  was  ap 
proaching  down  the  sunny  promenade.  He  gave  the  two  in  the 

242 


Angela's    Business 


car  just  one  full  surveying  stare;  then  casually  moved  his  gaze 
a  degree  or  two  away.  But,  as  he  dropped  back  out  of  the 
range  of  vision,  Charles  could  have  sworn  he  saw  a  smile  spring 
ing. under  the  glossy  mustache  he  had  once  pledged  himself  to 
pull  off. 

But  this  time,  he  felt  no  such  bitter  hostility  toward  the 
victorious  foe  as  had  shaken  him  on  that  other  remembered 
occasion.  There  was  a  transient  flicker  of  the  Old  Blood 
toward  his  temples,  a  brief  iciness  within,  and  that  was  all. 
Recalling  the  childish  folly  of  the  setting-up  exercises,  he  ex 
perienced  a  cold  mirth:  "  Why,  of  course,  she  'd  say  she  'd  have 
licked  Mysinger  herself,  if  she  'd  considered  it  worth  the 
trouble!"  And,  at  his  old  friend's  side,  Charles  had  the  most 
disloyal  thought  of  her  that  had  ever  knocked  at  his  mind. 
Was  Mysinger,  perhaps,  so  entirely  to  blame  for  the  ancient 
friction?  Had  he,  Charles,  been  principal  of  the  High  School, 
did  he  think  he  would  have  found  Mary  so  acceptable,  so  per 
fect,  a  subordinate?  .  .  . 

Assisting  her  to  alight  at  her  door,  the  young  man  inquired 
politely  if  she  had  yet  found  a  tenant  for  her  flat.  Mary  re 
plied,  quite  distantly,  he  thought,  that  the  John  Wensons 
were  going  to  take  it.  His  comment  was  that  old  Jack  should 
make  her  a  fine  tenant.  He  courteously  sent  his  regards  to 
her  mother;  he  amiably  wished  her  a  good-afternoon. 

And  then  he  shut  the  limousine  door  on  himself  so  hard  that 
the  glass  shook. 


XVIII 

FINDING  himself  unable  to  reflect  with  pleasure  or 
pride  upon  this  interview,  Charles  resolved,  within  the 
hour,  not  to  reflect  upon  it  at  all.  For  the  fourth 
time  —  or  was  it  the  fourteenth?  —  he  determined  to  think 
of  Egoettes  no  more.  At  least,  he  had  given  his  warning,  un- 
thanked,  and  that  ended  it.  He  might  rest  upon  the  ground 
that  the  match  would  really  be  a  very  suitable  thing;  or,  con 
versely,  he  might  argue  that  Donald  was  just  amusing  himself 
a  little  with  Angela,  at  odd  times,  while  at  heart  perfectly 
true  to  Helen,  etc.  But  chiefly  he  stood  upon  the  warning 
which  made  all  this  Mary  Wing's  concern  henceforward,  and 
no  longer  his.  And,  bent  upon  bringing  his  last  relation  and 
duty  in  the  case  to  a  clear,  honorable  conclusion,  Charles  sal 
lied  from  the  Studio  next  morning  with  the  new  "Marna" 
tucked  under  his  arm. 

But  there  seemed  to  hang  a  curse  over  everything  connected 
with  this  unhappy  book.  Because  he  had  brought  it  with  him 
to-day,  the  azure  heavens  became  overcast  at  noon;  at  two 
o'clock,  it  was  drizzling  dismally;  and  all  that  afternoon,  and 
all  the  next  day,  the  cold  rain  poured  in  torrents.  To  call  in 
such  home-keeping  weather  would  be  a  wanton  provocation: 
Charles  hung  off,  yet  again.  The  third  day  proved  well  worth 
waiting  for,  a  brilliant,  blue,  and  tingling  day,  gloriously  in 
viting  to  all  owners  of  vehicles.  And  now  a  new  plague  befell. 
When  Charles  emerged  from  Miss  Grace's  on  this  day,  his 
face  firmly  set  for  his  duty,  the  Big  Six  was  n't  there. 
The  discovery  was  most  disconcerting.  The  young  man 

244 


Angela's    Business 


stood  irresolute  on  the  Choristers'  steps,  "Marna"  clutched  in 
his  hands,  gazing  up  and  down  the  street. 

Unfortunately,  Eustace's  habits  had  not  been  kept  com 
pletely  virtuous  by  his  light  duties  with  his  mistress's  tutor. 
The  grinning  black  rascal  had  got  himself  pleasantly  illumi 
nated  the  first  day,  and  had  remained  in  that  state  with  con 
siderable  consistency  ever  since.  However,  being  kept  ex 
cellently  tipped,  he  had  never  failed  to  meet  an  appointment 
before;  and  Charles,  eyeing  the  spot  where  Jehu  should  have 
been,  but  was  n't,  was  most  unpleasantly  struck  with  his  own 
sense  of  helplessness  ensuing.  It  really  appeared  that  soft 
custom  had  made  him  as  dependent  on  the  limousine  as  if  he 
lacked  the  means  of  locomoting  for  himself. 

He  scanned  the  horizon.  Many  vehicles  rolled  up  and  down 
Washington  Street,  but  his  own  swift  chariot  was  nowhere 
among  them. 

Then,  while  he  irritably  hesitated  between  telephoning  to 
the  garage,  on  the  off  chance  that  Eustace  might  be  there,  and 
tamely  abandoning  the  enterprise  once  more,  a  third  alterna 
tive,  ingenious  in  its  way,  quite  unexpectedly  offered  itself. 
Down  the  street  came  jogging  a  carriage  for  hire  —  empty. 
Providence  seemed  to  be  directing  straight  at  him,  Charles. 
And,  by  chance,  he  knew  this  old  carriage  well;  Walter  Tay 
lor's  carriage,  it  was;  many  and  many  a  time  had  it  driven 
him  forth  to  parties  when  he  was  young  and  gay. 

On  the  first  quick  impulse,  Charles  went  springing  down 
the  Choristers'  steps. 

"Walter!  .  .  .  Here,  you  old  rascal!  Where  're  you  go 
ing?" 

"At  libbuty,  suh!"  cried  Walter  Taylor,  drawing  rein  with 
alacrity.  "Whar  mout  you  wish  to  be  druv,  Mist'  Garrott?" 

"  WeU!  —  Perhaps  I'll  let  you  — " 

245 


Angela's    Business 


The  young  man  hesitated,  fractionally,  struck  with  the 
rattletrap's  supreme  lack  of  dignity.  Then,  with  decision,  he 
plucked  open  the  weather-beaten  door. 

"  One  seven  East  Center.  And  look  sharp  now ! "  he  ordered, 
stepping  in  —  "  I'm  in  a  hurry.  Mind  you  don't  stop  for 
anything!" 

"Yassuh!  Sutney,  suh!"  said  Walter  Taylor,  with  great 
enthusiasm,  and  gave  his  old  nag  a  prodigious  wallop. 

So  it  fell  out  that,  for  his  first  call  at  the  Flowers'  since 
the  bridge-party  —  his  party-call,  his  book-call,  and  his  call 
about  the  Kiss  —  Charles  Garrott  fared  forth  in  a  closed 
livery  hack. 

Inside  the  hack,  Charles  laughed  briefly;  and  then  at  once 
began  to  react.  In  the  fine  afternoon,  numbers  of  people 
were  abroad.  Strangers  seemed  to  look  with  surprise  at 
the  apparently  able-bodied  young  man  who  liked  thus  to  trot 
around  in  a  hack;  chance  acquaintances  were  seen  to  smile 
in  passing;  more  than  one  called  out  derisive  remarks. 
Charles  himself  questioned  whether  his  employment  of  the 
hack  was  quite  reasonable.  .  .  .  Seemed  inconsistent  till  you 
stopped  to  think.  Inasmuch  as  he  was  going  straight  to  see 
Angela,  why,  it  might  be  asked,  all  this  elaborate  precaution 
in  advance?  Well  —  there  was  really  no  inconsistency  there; 
no,  none  at  all.  He  was  not  going  to  see  Angela;  he  was  only 
going  to  pay  The  Call,  while  she  was  out  in  her  Fordette  —  a 
totally  different  matter.  But  this  raised  fresh  questions  of 
consistency:  how  was  he  going  to  hold  his  position  that  Angela 
was  just  the  wife  for  Donald,  if  he  himself  would  only  go  to 
see  her  in  a  hack?.  .  .  Well,  the  answer  to  that  was  simple 
enough,  too.  Donald  was  a  marrying  man,  while  he,  Charles 
(though  probably  still  liked  best)  emphatically  was  not.  More 
over,  Donald  was  a  primitive  male,  while  he,  Charles,  was  a 

246 


Angela's    Business 


modern.  .  .  .  Or,  no,  perhaps  he  was  n't  a  modern,  exactly 

—  but  —  yes,  he  was  a  modern,  a  true  one,  while  others  he 
could  name  were  only  self-centered  extremists.  .  .  . 

At  Gresham  Street,  the  hack  turned  south,  at  Center  it 
turned  back  west.  Walter  Taylor,  up  aloft,  began  to  look  for 
his  street-number.  And  then,  while  Charles  still  argued 
uneasily  about  the  spiritual  differences  between  Donald  and 
himself,  his  eye  all  at  once  fell  on  Donald  in  the  flesh,  close  by 

—  striding  up  Center  Street  homeward  on  his  way  from  the 
office  he  left  so  early  now. 

The  sight  of  the  youth  at  this  moment  was  unwelcome  to 
Charles.  Instinctively,  he  sat  far  back  in  the  hack.  But  Don 
ald,  unluckily  turning  at  the  sound  of  wheels,  had  caught  sight 
of  him;  and  he  stopped  stock-still  on  the  sidewalk  at  once, 
staring  with  unaffected  interest. 

"Well,  I'll  be  darned!"  he  said,  as  the  carriage  came  up 
with  him.  "Whither  away  in  the  sea-going,  old  top?" 

Unwillingly  appearing  at  the  window,  Charles  said:  "Well, 
Donald.  .  .  .  Just  driving  around." 

"  Driving !  —  Thought  you  must  be  going  to  a  funeral,  at 
least,"  said  Donald,  stepping  along  to  keep  up.  "Here!  Stop 
the  blamed  thing!  I  want  to  look  you  over." 

"You  don'  want  me  to  stop,  does  you,  Mist'  Garrott?" 
bawled  down  Walter  Taylor  from  the  box. 

"No,  I  told  you!   Goon!" 

Walter  cut  his  nag  a  mighty  crack,  and  with  the  same  move 
ment  drew  rein  sharply. 

"Here's  yo'  number,  suh!"  he  cackled,  with  great  merri 
ment.  "One  seven,  like  you  said!  Yassuh!" 

So  the  hack  halted,  and  the  fare  reluctantly  discharged  him 
self.  His  friend,  having  come  up,  halted,  too,  a  few  feet  away; 
it  was  noted  that  his  gibing  expression  had  suddenly  altered. 

247 


Angela's    Business 


And  then  Charles  understood  instantly  that  this  fool's  desti 
nation  was  no  other  than  his  own. 

"Oho!"  said  Donald,  slowly  and  suspiciously.  "So  this  is 
where  you  were  driving  around  to?  " 

Controlling  an  immense  complication  of  sensations,  Charles 
said  coldly:  "  You  mean  you  're  going  to  —  the  Flowers',  too?  " 

"You've  guessed  it!"  retorted  the  engineer,  with  a  slight 
touch  of  consciousness.  And  he  added,  assuming  an  indiffer 
ent  air:  "Just  got  to  stop  by  and  leave  a  book  Miss  Flower 
lent  me." 

And  then,  for  the  first  time,  Charles  noticed  the  volume  in  a 
gaudy  wrapper  protruding  beneath  Donald's  sturdy  arm.  The 
coincidence  was  remarkable,  to  say  the  least  of  it.  It  was  also 
exceedingly  annoying. 

"Time,  too,"  quoth  the  primitive  male.  "I  've  had  it  since 
before  I  went  to  Wyoming." 

On  Angela's  sidewalk,  the  two  young  men  stood  gazing 
hard  at  each  other.  Whatever  the  argument  in  the  case,  it  was 
surely  Charles's  higher  nature  that  spoke  at  last,  icily  but 
firmly:  — 

"I  am  going  here  to  return  a  book,  and  also  to  pay  a  call  — 
on  the  family.  If  you  wish,  I  will  return  your  book  for  you." 

"Could  n't  think  of  troubling  you,  Charlie,  old  top." 

"As  you  like,  of  course  —  " 

"But  as  I  'm  going  in,  anyway,  why  need  you  stop  at  all? 
Glad  to  take  charge  of  your  book  for  you.  Save  you  a  little 
hack-fare." 

To  this,  Charles  disdained  reply.  So  the  two  members  of  the 
coterie,  with  their  books  to  return  under  their  arms,  stepped 
up  the  bricked  walkway  side  by  side. 

Charles  rang  the  Flowers'  loud  little  bell.  Having  done  so, 
he  turned  on  the  shabby  verandah,  with  the  intention  of  look- 

248 


Angela's    Business 


ing  Donald  hostilely  up  and  down.  But  he  found  that  Donald 
was  already  looking  him  up  and  down,  in  the  most  hostile 
manner  conceivable.  Then  the  youth's  dullness,  his  grotesque 
conception  of  a  male  rivalry  here,  his  impervious  blind  asi- 
ninity,  —  all  this  acting  upon  the  original  concern  about  the 
Call,  produced  a  sudden  infuriation.  Speech  flowed  from 
Charles:  — 

"Of  all  the  laughing  jackasses  that  ever  broke  loose  from  a 
zoo,  I  do  think  you  take  the  cake,  Manford.  How  you  keep 
from  falling  off  bridges,  or  butting  out  the  pan  where  your 
brain  ought  to  be  on  stone-copings,  passes  all  understanding. 
If  I  did  n't  have  you  to  look  at,  I  would  n't  believe  it  possible 
that  an  ordinary  well-meaning  chucklehead  could  deteriorate 
so  horribly,  just  in  a  week  or  two." 

Donald  seemed  slightly  nonplussed  by  this  attack.  All 
that  he  could  muster  in  reply  was  some  very  poor  childish 
stuff,  introduced  by  shakings  of  his  head  and  "significant" 
tappings  of  his  forehead. 

"So  that's  why  they  sent  him  around  here  in  a  closed 
carriage  —  oho!  Old  Doc  Flower's  an  alienist  —  forgot  that! 
H'm!  Funny  how  it  runs  in  the  family.  First  old  Blenso, 
now  poor  Charlie-boy  ..." 

Then  a  servant  opened  the  door,  and  relieved  the  high  ten 
sion  instantly  by  saying,  in  reply  to  two  simultaneous  ques 
tions,  that  Miss  Flower  was  out. 

Donald  looked  slightly  crestfallen.  Charles's  look  was  the 
opposite.  The  youth's  presence  here  had  strongly  suggested 
that  Angela  was  known  to  be  in,  despite  the  fine  weather. 
When  the  Flowers'  servant  —  answering  Donald's  "Oh,  she's 
out,  is  she?"  —  said  further  that  Miss  Angela  had  gone  driv 
ing  with  a  genaman,  his  relief  rose  to  genuine  thanksgiving. 
And  then  Donald  cleared  the  air  completely  by  cavalierly 

249 


Angela's    Business 


handing  in  his  book,  with  only  his  card  for  acknowledgment, 
and  clattering  away  down  the  steps.  Evidently,  he  sought  a 
little  amusement  here,  and  nothing  more. 

Charles  himself  hesitated  on  the  veranda.  The  thing  was 
over  and  done  with.  The  Call  was  formally  and  honorably 
paid.  Perhaps  he  only  wanted  to  do  something  different 
from  Donald;  perhaps  he  thought  to  mark  signally  his  revised 
good  opinion  of  Angela;  or  perhaps  mere  revulsion  of  feeling 
swung  him  into  exuberant  excesses.  At  any  rate,  in  the  very 
act  of  extending  his  book,  he  recalled  a  long-forgotten  promise, 
and  said  suddenly,  but  tentatively:  — 

"And  Dr.  Flower?  I  suppose  he's  out,  too?" 

"Him?  Naws',  he 's  in,"  said  the  slatternly  and  ill-favored 
woman. 

"  What!  —  he  is?  Are  you  sure?" 

"Ef  yo'  want  to  see  him,  walk  in." 

"Ah  —  well,  I  '11  just  stop  and  see  him  for  a  few  moments. 
That  is,  if  he  happens  to  be  at  leisure." 

So  the  hack  waited  in  front  of  the  Flowers',  and  Charles 
stepped  (for  the  first  time  on  his  own  motion)  over  the  thresh 
old  of  Angela's  Home. 

He  felt  that  this  was  a  superfluous  proceeding;  it  turned  out 
considerably  worse.  Having  entered  the  Home,  he  found  him 
self  abruptly  plunged  into  the  middle  of  it,  as  it  were.  In  fact, 
the  impromptu  extension  of  the  Call  to  Dr.  Flower,  besides 
everything  else  that  could  be  said  against  it,  proved  as  inop 
portune  as  could  well  have  been  imagined. 

The  contretemps  indicated  was  due  to  the  servant  (Luemma, 
in  short),  who  apparently  did  not  believe  in  announcing 
visitors,  or  perhaps  had  never  heard  of  the  civil  custom.  She 
merely  stood  by,  in  a  disapproving,  suspicious  sort  of  way, 
while  the  caller  deposited  his  book  on  the  hatstand  beside 

250 


Angela's    Business 


Donald's,  and  removed  his  overcoat  and  gloves.   And  then 
she  said,  with  a  manner  no  whit  better  than  her  appearance:  — 
"Walk  this  way." 

Charles,  necessarily  assuming  that  this  was  the  rule  of  the 
house,  walked  that  way. 

The  hall  of  the  Home  was  narrow  and  dark,  the  pervading 
atmosphere  noted  as  somewhat  cheerless.  It  was  not  lighted 
and  decked  for  festivity  now,  as  on  the  famous  night  of  the 
bridge-party:  parlor  and  dingy  little  dining-room,  glimpsed 
in  passing,  wore  (to  the  author's  sensitive  eye)  a  depressing 
air,  vaguely  suggestive  of  failure,  imcompetence,  and  the  like. 
But  that,  of  course,  is  the  front  that  poverty  so  commonly 
wears:  all  the  more  reason  that  a  hard- worked  Temporary 
Spinster,  or  vicarious  Home-Maker,  should  wish  to  get  out 
sometimes,  and  go  and  meet  her  friends.  .  .  . 

However,  Charles  also  was  conscious  of  a  wish  to  get  out. 
Why  was  he  doing  this,  exactly?  Really,  now,  what  was  the 
sense  of  it? 

The  black  worthy  was  leading  him  toward  a  shut  door  in 
the  dusk  beyond  the  dining-room:  the  office,  clearly,  of  that 
patientless  provider,  Angela's  father.  Now  the  young  man 
was  aware  of  voices  behind  that  door,  or  rather  of  a  voice.  It 
was  a  woman's  voice,  pitched  in  rather  a  complaining  key, 
and  for  the  first  second  Charles  thought,  with  a  start,  that  it 
was  Angela's.  It  was  n't,  of  course;  but  his  steps  instinctively 
slackened. 

"Ah  —  the  Doctor  seems  to  be  engaged  —  after  all,"  he 
threw  out,  in  lowered  tones.  "Perhaps  I'd  better  come  an 
other  day." 

"Naws',  he  ain't  engaged.  Just  him  and  Miz'  Flower  talk- 
in'." 

Charles,  truth  to  tell,  was  scarcely  reassured  by  that  as- 

251 


Angela's    Business 


surance:  he  did  not  like  to  run  in  on  a  strange  couple  this 
way,  in  particular  when  the  lady  was  speaking  in  that  tone. 
But  his  sour  guide  had  not  paused.  And  now  there  came  a 
different  voice  through  the  thin  door:  a  man's  voice,  faintly 
humorous,  faintly  sarcastic,  and  considerably  weary.  It  was 
recognizably  the  voice  of  the  esteemed  Doctor,  and  it  said, 
with  fatal  distinctness:  — 

"Is  it  possible  you  forget,  madam,  that  you're  speaking  to 
your  husband  and  the  father  of  your  children?  " 

If  the  feet  of  the  reluctant  caller  had  lagged  before,  they 
now  stopped  short.  One  of  his  overminds  perceived .  instantly 
that  the  strange  words  he  had  had  no  business  to  hear  possessed 
a  sort  of  distorted  familiarity,  like  a  horrid  parody  of  a  senti 
ment  known  and  established;  but  as  to  that,  there  was  not  time 
to  speculate  now.  What  was  only  too  plain  was  that  some 
thing  like  a  domestic  scene  was  afoot  in  the  office  of  the  home, 
making  the  intrusion  of  a  stranger  peculiarly  inapropos. 

"Don't!  —  I'll  not  stop  now!"  he  murmured  hastily,  aid 
sharply.  "Just  take  these  cards  here,  and — " 

But  the  maladroit  blackamoor  was  already  opening  the  door; 
and  the  young  man's  last  stand  against  the  Call  was  put  down 
with  a  brief  and  surly:  — 

"  Genaman  to  see  Doctor.  Walk  in." 

That  settled  the  matter,  beyond  any  undoing.  Charles 
Garrott  was  a  caller  now,  whether  or  no.  With  an  embarrass 
ment  such  as  none  of  his  many  calculations  about  this  hour 
had  anticipated,  he  stepped  blundering  in  upon  Angela's  un 
witting  parents. 

Dr.  Flower's  small  office  was  dark;  its  light  came  only 
through  a  single  window  from  a  narrow  air-well.  Hence,  the 
forms  of  the  lady  and  gentleman  in  it  were  at  first  but  dimly 
apprehended.  Having  turned  in  their  seats  at  the  sound  which 

252 


Angela's    Business 


disturbed  their  privacy,  they  seemed  to  be  peering  together, 
in  silent  inquiry,  at  the  intruder.  It  was  the  intruder's  move> 
obviously;  and,  being  in  for  it,  he  did  his  hasty  best  to  pluck 
a  hearty  calling  manner  over  his  decided  malease. 

"Oh!  —  good-afternoon,  Dr.  Flower!  It 's  Garrott,  Charles 
Garrott  —  perhaps  you  may  remember  — " 

Now  the  dim  forms  were  rising  together,  the  tall  Doctor's 
with  a  jerk:  — 

"Ah,  yes!  Howdo,  Mr.  Garrott!  Quite—" 

"I  hope  I'm  not  interrupting!  I  stopped  to  return  some 
books,  and  —  ah  —  finding  that  Miss  Angela  was  out,  I 
thought  I  'd  take  the  opportunity  — " 

"Quite  so  —  very  kind!  Come  in!  But  I'd  better  make  a 
light?  Take  seat,  sir.  Mrs.  Flower?" 

The  Doctor's  manner,  of  course,  was  natively  too  queer  to 
betray  anything,  even  astonishment  at  the  Call.  But  it  was 
not  observed  that  Angela's  mother  bore  any  of  the  marks  of 
a  lady  surprised  in  the  middle  of  a  "scene,"  and  this  was  a 
relief,  unquestionably;  the  parents  didn't  know  him  for  an 
eavesdropper,  at  any  rate.  Agreeably  accepting  his  introduc 
tion  of  himself,  Mrs.  Flower  was  bestowing  upon  him  a  dim 
but  comforting  smile,  and  a  limp  hand  to  shake. 

"I  feel  that  I  already  know  you,  Mr.  Garrott.  I  've  so  often 
heard  my  daughter  speak  of  you,"  she  said,  in  the  slightly 
plaintive  voice  he  had  heard  through  the  door.  "  She  '11  be 
so  sorry  to  miss  you.  ..." 

The  hearty  Charles  spoke  his  little  mendacity. 

"  But  a  friend  of  hers  from  Mitchell  ton  is  here  to-day  to  see 
her  —  Daniel  Jenney  —  and  Angela  has  just  taken  him  out 
for  a  little  drive  in  her  car,  to  see  the  town.  I  feel  sure  she  '11 
be  in  soon,  though." 

Mr.  Jenney's  presence  in  the  city  was  the  best  news  heard 

253 


Angela's    Business 


by  Charles  in  many  a  day.  All  in  all,  things  were  n't  going  off 
so  badly.  And,  if  he  knew  Angela  in  the  least,  she  would  not 
be  in  soon,  either;  he  had  thought  of  all  that  on  the  verandah. 

Then  the  Doctor's  match  caught  the  gas  with  a  faint  pop, 
and  the  little  room  filled  with  a  high  white  light.  In  the  sud 
den  brightness,  the  caller's  eye  noted  two  unrelated  matters 
almost  together.  One  was  merely  an  ash-tray  upon  the  mantel. 
The  other  was  Mrs.  Flower  herself,  and  her  unexpected  re 
semblance  to  her  pretty  young  daughter.  Line  for  line,  the 
two  faces  were  different  enough,  no  doubt,  and  this  one  was 
no  longer  young.  But  to  a  stranger's  eye,  the  general  like 
ness  was  rather  remarkable;  Charles  was  much  struck  with  it. 

"Sit  down,  sir,"  said  the  Doctor,  and  contributed  his  match 
to  the  ash-tray. 

"Ah,  thank  you." 

But  of  course  he  could  not  sit  down  while  Angela's  mother 
remained  standing  and  conversing  with  him;  and  she  did  so 
stand  and  converse  a  moment  or  so,  rather  idly,  seemingly  un 
certain  whether  she  intended  to  stay  or  go,  and  trying  to  make 
up  her  mind.  Once  or  twice  she  glanced  at  her  husband  un 
decidedly,  as  if  he  might  have  something  to  do  with  the  matter; 
and  no  wonder.  But  her  final  verdict  was  that  she  was  to  go; 
and  Charles  was  rather  glad  that  it  worked  out  this  way, 
though  why  he  hardly  knew. 

Mrs.  Flower's  decisive  remark  was  that  sjie  must  get  on 
with  her  household  duties.  She  gave  Charles  her  limp  hand 
again,  again  mentioned  her  daughter's  distress,  if  she  missed 
him;  she  bestowed  upon  him  another  pretty  and  somewhat 
significant  smile;  and  then  faded  out  of  the  Call,  leaving  be 
hind  a  vague  impression  of  feminine  inadequacy  and  a  button 
missing  from  her  black  waist. 

So  the  young  man  was  left  with  the  worthy  Doctor,  who 

254 


Angela's    Business 


could  speak  so  sarcastically  to  a  defenseless  woman,  his  wife. 
And  for  a  space  he  found  the  tete-a-tete  heavy  going,  indeed, 
and  was  more  oppressed  than  ever  with  the  essential  meaning- 
lessness  of  it  all. 

Angela's  father  did  not  look  like  a  brute,  but  only  dryer, 
queerer,  shabbier,  than  before.  He  jerked  his  neck  more, 
looked  more  unrelated  to  his  environment.  He  was  very  civil, 
but  he  cocked  his  eye  too  much  toward  the  ceiling,  felt  too 
little  responsibility  as  to  keeping  a  conversation  going. 
Charles's  efforts  (hearty  enough,  despite  the  counter-feelings 
going  on  within  him)  seemed  to  bound  off  dead  from  that 
juiceless,  withdrawn  manner.  Having  refused  a  cigar  (there 
was  a  little  talk  about  smoking,  but  he  could  n't  keep  it  going), 
he  proposed  for  discussion  the  Doctor's  son  Wallie,  his  educa 
tion,  abilities  as  a  chemist,  skill  as  a  lamp-repairer,  etc.  The 
topic  promised  well,  and  did  well  for  a  couple  of  minutes,  but 
petered  out  mysteriously  and  beyond  resurrection.  The  Doc 
tor's  work  out  at  the  Medical  School  yielded  almost  nothing; 
the  weather  enjoyed  but  a  brief  and  fitful  run.  Presently, 
Charles  found  himself  fairly  driven  to  Mary  Wing,  and  her 
imminent  departure  to  lead  her  own  life;  and  this  subject  won 
a  real  success,  though  not  of  a  sort  he  could  take  much  satis 
faction  in.  It  quickly  developed  that  Angela's  parent  held 
ante-bellum  views  on  Woman,  which  he  put  forward  with 
some  dry  zest,  in  the  strange  backhanded  fashion  noted  by 
Charles  in  their  previous  meeting.  After  a  very  few  exchanges, 
the  old  eccentric  was  delivering  himself  of  paragraphs  like 
this:  — 

"Ah,  you  throw  out  that  suggestion?  An  interesting  idea! 
—  quite  so! "(Charles  had  thrown  out  no  suggestion  of  any 
sort.)  "Your  observation  is  that  the  Lord  has  formed  woman 
specifically  for  the  needs  of  family  and  the  home  —  quite  so!  — 

255 


Angela's    Business 


and  that  efforts  to  change  her  destiny  seem  to  result  in  con 
stitutional  perversion?  Well,  sir,  I  dare  say  the  physicians 
would  support  your  contention  there,  too.  Who  knows?" 

Even  "Marna,"  even  Mary  Wing,  had  never  made  Charles 
so  conservative  as  this.  Oddly  enough,  he  found  the  Doctor's 
criticisms  unwelcome;  it  was  his  turn  to  let  a  subject  die  from 
malnutrition.  In  the  pause,  he  considered  whether  he  had  not 
called  long  enough  now.  About  to  rise,  he  chanced  to  note  a 
worn  volume  of  Henderson's  "Stonewall  Jackson"  lying  open 
on  the  table,  and  asked,  with  little  hope,  if  the  Doctor  had 
read  it.  The  old  codger  replied:  "I  am  reading  it  now  for  the 
seventh  time,  sir."  And  to  the  young  man's  agreeable  surprise, 
he  at  once  uncocked  his  eye  from  the  ceiling  (where  he  seemed 
to  have  meant  to  leave  it  permanently),  and  began  to  talk  along 
almost  like  a  regular  person. 

During  the  remainder  of  the  Call,  conversation  flowed  very 
satisfactorily.  It  appeared  that  the  War  was  one  of  this  old 
codger's  subjects,  even  as  Woman  was  Charles's;  and  he 
talked  well,  too,  now  that  he  cared  to,  criticizing  strategy  as 
one  having  authority,  revealing,  behind  that  spare,  intensely 
conservative  manner,  flashes  of  broad  outlook  and  incisive 
speech  which  might  have  helped  to  explain  why  the  Medical 
School  had  been  glad  to  draw  this  man  from  Mitchellton  to  its 
staff.  But  the  truth  was  that  Charles  Carrot t  heard  scarcely 
a  word  of  this  excellent  discourse.  Once  he  had  got  Angela's 
father  fairly  going,  he  became  captured  and  fascinated  by  a 
totally  independent  line  of  thought. 

In  short,  the  young  man's  gaze  had  returned  to  almost  the 
first  thing  he  had  definitely  noticed  in  the  Home,  to  wit,  the 
ash-tray  on  the  Doctor's  mantel. 

The  ash-tray  was  really  a  large  saucer,  or  small  plate,  and 
the  intriguing  and  really  exciting  thing  about  it  was  that  it 

256 


Angela's    Business 


contained  the  remains  of  scarcely  less  than  a  dozen  cigars. 
Just  before  he  made  the  lucky  remark  about  Henderson's 
"Life,"  the  caller  had  inadvertently  discovered  two  more 
cigar-ends,  poised  perilously  on  the  mantel's  edge;  this  it  was 
that  had  started  him  reacting  yet  again.  For,  considering  that 
the  Doctor  was  out  a  large  part  of  the  day,  lecturing,  it  ap 
peared  incredible  that  he  could  have  achieved  such  astonish 
ing  results  since  morning.  Rather,  the  mantel  had  the  air 
of  having  stood  undisturbed  for  some  little  time.  .  .  . 

"If  those  men,"  he  was  saying,  "had  but  shot  another  way, 
that  night  at  Chancellorsville  — " 

"Ah,  sir!  the  vast  'ifs'  of  history.  And  none  bigger  than 
that,  it  may  be.  Yet,  as  I  say  ..." 

From  the  large  heaped  saucer,  with  its  ring  of  spilled  ashes, 
the  detective  eye  flitted  over  the  room,  briefly,  somewhat 
guiltily,  yet  uncontrollably.  It  received  an  impression  of  dust 
on  the  table,  dust  on  the  bookshelves,  disorder  pervasively, 
and  a  waste-basket  brimful  of  trash.  Finally,  the  eye  rested 
anew  on  the  Doctor  himself,  with  his  frayed  collar  and  joyless 
mien.  And  all  the  time,  under  the  mask  of  the  caller,  a  ques 
tion  was  irresistibly  rising  and  thrusting  itself  upon  the  atten 
tion  of  the  authority:  What  housekeeper  had  charge  of  this 
untidy  little  room,  what  home-maker  was  in  the  business  of 
supplying  beauty  and  charm  to  this  jaded  gentleman? 

Unaware  that  he  was  being  thought  of  in  these  terms,  An 
gela's  father  reverted  austerely  to  the  Seven  Days'  fighting 
around  Richmond.  .  .  . 

The  scientific  inquiry  had  a  perfectly  proper  answer,  of 
course.  In  the  truest  sense,  Mrs.  Flower  was  the  housekeeper 
in  question;  that  faded  belle,  with  the  button  off  her  waist, 
owed  the  beauty  and  charm  due  in  this  quarter.  Not  for 
nothing  did  she  have  that  distinctly  inefficient  voice.  And  the 

257 


Angela's    Business 


moment  Charles  thought  of  that  voice,  his  mind,  with  a  sort 
of  jump,  made  a  link,  and  he  understood  at  once  why  the 
Doctor's  strange  speech,  eavesdropped  by  him  outside  the 
door,  had  seemed  to  have  the  quality  of  a  parody.  Of  course! 
This  dry  husband,  with  the  sick-man's  face,  had  merely  been 
giving  back,  in  a  masculinized  version,  a  reminder  not  infre 
quently  heard  on  the  lips  of  womanly  women,  when  married. 
Before  he  had  invented  that  ironic  retort,  how  often  had 
Angela's  father  heard  it  said:  I 'm  your  wife,  and  the  mother  oj 
your  children.  .  . . 

"And  what,"  the  civil  caller  said,  "do  you  think  of  Mary 
Johnston's  picture  of  Jackson?  I  assume,  of  course,  you  're 
familiar  with  — " 

"A  brilliant  achievement,  sir.  Indeed,  astonishing  —  for  a 
woman,"  said  the  conservative  Doctor,  jerking  his  neck;  and 
resumed. 

But  the  young  authority  found  his  reactions  oddly  and 
increasingly  disturbing,  and  shortly  rose  to  go.  He  had 
become  certain,  abruptly,  that  he  had  party-called  long 
enough. 

His  eccentric  host,  who  had  appeared  so  dryly  indifferent  to 
his  coming,  seemed,  on  the  whole,  to  regret  his  departure. 
And  Charles,  perceiving  this,  found  himself  feeling  rather  sorry 
for  him.  But  he  showed  his  sympathies,  not  by  offering  to  stay 
longer  or  to  come  again,  but  by  inviting  Angela's  father  to 
lunch  with  him  at  Berringer's,  one  day  very  soon  at  his  con 
venience. 

"I  feel  that  we  should  further  the  acquaintance,"  he  said, 
as  they  shook  hands,  "  because  of  —  ah  —  my  long  friendship 
for  your  —  that  is,  for  your  wife's  cousin." 

And  then  he  had  a  new  surprise;  for,  though  the  Doctor's 
lips  twitched  a  little  at  his  correction,  showing  that  he  was  not 

258 


Angela's    Business 


altogether  devoid  of  humor,  it  was  with  instant  seriousness 
that  he  said:  — 

"I  do  insist  upon  the  distinction,  you  allege?  Well,  I'm 
free  to  say  to  you,  sir,  that  I  have  but  scant  sympathy  with 
these  fantastic  modern  notions.  If  all  women  did  as  my  wife's 
young  cousin  does,  what,  pray,  would  become  of  the  Home?  " 

"Ah,  what?"  said  Charles. 

And  as  he  thought  of  Mary  Wing's  charming  and  beauti 
fully  kept  sitting-room,  he  seemed  to  feel  his  head  going  round. 
Surely,  he  had  never  before  seen  conservatism  so  magnificent 
as  this. 

"  Meanwhile,  come  in  again,  sir,  when  you  find  time.  I  have 
few  callers,  and  have  appreciated  your  visit  — " 

"Yes!  — thank  you!" 

"My  daughter  will  be  sorry  — " 

And  then,  as  the  Doctor  opened  the  door,  and  his  luster- 
less  eye  looked  out,  he  added  with  an  approach  to  grave 
pleasure  in  his  voice:  — 

"Ah,  here  is  Angela  now  —  just  in  time." 

The  caller's  eye  went  slipping  down  the  hall;  and  so  it  was. 
In  the  light  of  the  open  front  door,  her  rural  swain  behind  her, 
the  young  home-maker  stood  by  the  hatstand,  examining  the 
two  returned  books  she  had  just  found  there.  What  chance 
had  brought  her  back  thus  early,  cutting  off  his  retreat?  Had 
she  passed  and  seen  his  hack  standing  there,  and  wondered? 

But,  curiously,  Charles's  bachelor  shrinking  from  this  re- 
meeting  seemed  suddenly  to  have  vanished.  All  his  determined 
championship  of  the  Type,  dating  back  to  the  Redman  tie  Club, 
all  his  personal  sense  of  honorable  obligation,  had  mysteriously 
thinned  to  nothing  in  half  an  hour  in  Dr.  Flower's  office.  In 
some  way  that  defied  analysis,  the  interior  of  the  Home 
seemed  to  have  wiped  out  Angela's  girlish  claim,  the  ash-tray 

259 


Angela's    Business 


had  overcome  the  Kiss.  And  Charles,  bidding  her  father  fare 
well,  went  walking  down  the  narrow  hall  with  a  tread  firm  as 
a  soldier's. 

Angela  had  turned  at  the  sound  of  voices;  she  stood  gazing 
somewhat  uncertainly  into  the  dimness  (for  she  was  a  little 
short-sighted  without  the  opera-glasses,  and  perhaps  this  was 
only  a  patient).  The  instant  of  recognition  of  her  friend  was 
marked  with  an  exclamation,  almost  a  cry,  of  pleasure;  and 
she  started  toward  him  with  the  happiest  surprised  welcome. 

The  re-meeting  was  effected  by  the  hatstand,  where  Charles 
had  stood  on  the  day  he  had  borrowed  the  book  he  now  came 
to  return.  Water  had  flowed  under  London  Bridge  since  then. 
Mr.  Jenney,  owner  of  the  celebrated  ring,  was  presented.  He 
was  a  long-legged,  gangling,  curly-headed  youth,  with  a  face 
that  was  beautiful  in  its  way,  no  less;  and  it  must  have  been  a 
frank  face,  too,  since  Charles,  the  observer,  immediately  had 
the  fellow's  whole  secret.  Here  was  Mr.  Jenney's  fair  ideal,  his 
high  star  and  lady  of  dreams;  and  his  full  reward  for  his  pure 
devotion  was  to  be  kept  hanging  on,  a  masculine  anchor  to 
windward — just  in  case,  as  they  say.  Still,  he  might  prove  the 
deus  ex  machina  of  the  issue  yet. 

At  the  moment,  however,  little  was  seen  of  Mr.  Jenney, 
since,  almost  in  the  first  breath,  his  star  said:  "Oh,  Dan, 
father's  in  now,  and  he'll  want  so  to  see  you!"  —  and  Mr. 
Jenney  straightway  withdrew  obediently.  One  gathered  that 
obedience  was  his  fatal  quality. 

Thus  the  unheroic  Charles  confronted  his  Temporary  Spin 
ster  at  last,  in  her  dark  home-hall.  And  she,  not  guessing  the 
new  philosophic  resistance  within  him,  said,  with  the  gayest 
confident  air,  and  no  little  archness,  too:  — 

"Well,  Mr.  Garrott!  .  .  .  Did  you  decide  to  pay  your 
party-call?" 

260 


Angela's     Business 


Charles  smiled. 

"I  've  been  promising  myself  to  come  in  for  some  time,"  he 
said  pleasantly.  "  I  had  several  excellent  excuses,  you  see.  For 
one  thing,  there  was  your  book,  which  I  Ve  appropriated  all 
this  time — " 

"  Oh,  that !  I  just  saw  it  there  —  and  thought  I  must  have 
missed  you!  That  would  have  been  too  mean,  after  all  this 
time!"  She  glanced  toward  the  hatstand,  adding:  "And  — 
Mr.  Manford  gave  you  that  other  one  to  bring  back,  I  sup 
pose?" 

"No  —  ah  —  we  came  together,  but,  of  course,  he  left 
when  he  found  that  you  were  out.  I  wanted  especially  to  pay 
my  respects  to  your  father,  so  — " 

"I'm  awfully  glad  he  kept  you  for  me.  .  .  .  How  are  you 
now?  You  don't  know  how  I  've  missed  you,  since  you  had  to 
stop  walking  entirely!" 

"  I  Ve  been  extremely  well,  thank  you.  Or  —  at  least  — 
I  Ve  been  pretty  well  — " 

"Oh,  I  know  you  haven't  been  well!  —  you  just  try  to 
make  light  of  it!  Mr.  Manford  told  me  you  were  breaking 
yourself  down  from  overwork  —  you  ought  n't  to  do  it!  And 
then  that  night  wrhen  I  phoned,  and  your  Secretary  said  you 
were  sick  from  not  taking  any  exercise,  I  was  worried,  truly  I 
was!  I  wanted  to  write  you  a  little  note  —  but  — " 

"  A  mere  temporary  indisposition,  not  worth  a  moment  of 
your  thought,"  said  Mr.  Garrott.  He  was  wholly  recovered 
now. 

"  I  'm  so  glad.  You  really  do  look  well !  It 's  been  ages 
since  I  Ve  seen  you!  But  why,"  she  said,  laughing  up  at  him 
prettily,  "am  I  keeping  you  standing  at  the  door  like  this! 
Come  in  the  parlor." 

"I  *m  sorry,  but  I  really  can't,  thank  you.  I  must  be  going." 

261 


Angela's    Business 


She  stopped  in  complete  surprise.  "Going!  Oh,  you  must 
n't  go  now  ! —  when  I  've  just  come  in !  Why,  you  could  n't!  —  " 

"My  time 's  up, you  see,  and  more.  Writing,''  said  Charles 
sententiously,  "is  a  dreadful  taskmaster.  But  I  've  explained 
all  that— " 

"I  know!  —  but  you  're  here  now!  You  can  surely  take  a 
little  time,  Mr.  Garrott  —  when  I  have  n't  seen  you  for  days 
and  days — " 

"I've  already  overstayed  my  scant  allowance,  you  see, 
with  your  father.  But  I  'm  glad  to  have  had  a  little  glimpse  of 
you,  at  any  rate." 

On  the  whole,  he  had  sought  to  speak  in  his  usual  voice  and 
air;  but  now  he  saw  that  his  new  power  of  firmness  had  dis 
closed  itself  to  her  not  too  sensitive  ear.  The  liquid  eyes 
under  the  becoming  new  hat  regarded  him  with  sudden  in 
quiry,  puzzled  and  speculative.  .  .  . 

To  think  seriously  ill  of  this  girl,  because,  perhaps,  she  was 
not  an  enthusiastic  cleaner  of  the  parental  home,  was  not  in 
Charles,  the  man,  whatever  the  authority  might  have  to  say. 
Her  soft  and  unlessoned  youthfulness,  confronting  him,  dis 
armed  all  criticism.  But  the  chance  resemblance  to  her  plain 
tive  mother  had  seemed,  oddly,  to  strike  him  much  deeper. 
Looking  down  at  this  virginal  sweet  freshness,  by  the  hat- 
stand  and  the  books,  the  young  man  had  been  full  of  the  elu 
sive  sense  that  as  the  daughter  looked  and  charmed  now,  so 
the  mother  had  looked  once;  and  beyond  her  present  air  of 
alluring  femininity,  he  seemed  persistently  to  be  seeing  Angela 
at  fifty,  sitting  idle  in  an  unswept  room  and  continually  re 
minding  a  worn-out  husband  of  her  sacrifices  and  her  service. 
.  .  .  Pure  fantasy,  was  it,  a  fiction-writer's  imagining  born 
of  a  superficial  likeness?  Or  was  there  a  deeper,  a  more  ro 
mantic,  kinship  between  the  girl  who  set  so  naive  an  estimate 

262 


Angela's    Business 


on  the  value  of  her  kiss,  and  the  woman  who  would  plume 
herself  through  an  indolent  lifetime  on  the  ancient  history  of 
her  maternity?  .  .  . 

The  girl  opened  her  mouth  to  speak:  but  there  came  a  wel 
come  diversion.  A  step  was  heard  on  the  wooden  verandah, 
and  the  two  young  people,  turning  their  heads  together,  saw 
a  liveried  servant  at  the  still  open  door,  bowing,  speaking:  — 

"Miss  Flower,  marm?" 

"Yes  —  I  am  Miss  Flower." 

"Fum  Mr.  Tilletts,  marm,"  said  the  servant,  extending  a 
note.  "And  he  say  please  don't  you  trouble  to  write,  if 
you  'd  kindly  send  an  answer  by  me,  marm." 

"Oh!  All  right." 

Having  said,  "Excuse  me,  Mr.  Garrott,"  Angela  opened  and 
glanced  through  her  note,  and  then  remarked:  "Mr.  Tilletts 
wants  me  to  go  to  the  theater  with  him  to-night.  How  nice!" 

Her  back  to  the  servant,  she  made  a  little  deprecating  face 
at  Mr.  Garrott;  but  her  voice  seemed  pleasurably  stirred  all 
the  same,  and  her  answer  to  the  chauffeur  was:  — 

"Thank  Mr.  Tilletts,  and  say  Miss  Flower '11  be  very  glad, 
indeed,  to  go,  and  will  be  ready  at  quarter  past  eight." 

Charles  wondered  afterward  if  the  opportune  Tilletts  had 
not  subtly  assisted  his  own  withdrawal;  but  for  the  moment  it 
rather  seemed  otherwise.  While  Angela  spoke  to  the  servant, 
he  had  turned  hastily  toward  his  overcoat;  and  now  her  hand 
fell  upon  his  arm,  with  just  a  touch  of  the  spoiled  darling  air,  or 
at  least  with  that  added  confidence  which  comes  to  a  girl  with 
these  concrete  evidences  of  her  success. 

"No,  you  must  n't!  Don't  go  yet.  Please!''1 

"I  'm  compelled  to,  unluckily.  I  very  rarely  allow  myself 
the  pleasure  of  calling  at  all,  you  know,  and  — " 

"But  you  have  allowed  yourself  the  pleasure,  now,  Mr. 

263 


Angela's    Business 


Garrott!  Oh!  —  don't  be  so  firm!  Come  in  —  for  only  a 
minute!  You  can  surely  spare  me  a  minute — when  I  ask  you 
to  specially — " 

"It  is  literally  impossible." 

Angela  had  extended  her  small  hand  to  lead  him  into  the 
parlor.  Now  she  let  it  fall  at  her  side,  and  stood  looking  at  him 
with  a  conscious  expression  on  her  face,  a  pretty  expression,  but 
one  that  he  scarcely  liked.  Of  course  both  of  them  knew  that 
it  was  by  no  means  literally  impossible  for  Mr.  Garrott  to 
come  in,  for  only  a  minute.  But  doubtless  a  womanly  girl 
could  be  trusted  to  find  an  explanation  for  his  peculiar 
speeches  that  plucked  their  stingers  from  them,  as  it  were. 

"  You  're  so  strange.  You  're  displeased  with  me,  I  can  see 
that.  Why?  —  because  I  was  n't  in  when  you  called?  Why, 
I  'm  nearly  always  out  on  fine  afternoons! " 

"I  know  that,"  ventured  the  young  man. 

"If  you'd  just  told  me  in  advance.  .  .  .  Don't  you  know 
I  'd  never  have  gone  out  with  Dan  Jenney,  if  I  'd  dreamed 
you  were  going  to  call?" 

He  knew  this  also,  only  too  well;  but  this  time  he  only  said: 
"A  caller  must  take  his  chances,  of  course.  By  the  way,  let 
me  thank  you  very  much,  again,  for  lending  me  that  book.  I 
found  it  immensely  interesting." 

"Oh!  —  'Marna'?  I  did  n't  want  you  to  come  just  for  that. 
.  .  .  Did  she  make  you  think  of  Cousin  Mary  at  all?" 

He  smiled  distantly,  turned  away,  and  put  on  his  over 
coat. 

This  was  done  in  entire  silence;  Angela  urged  him  to  stay 
no  longer.  But  when  he  turned,  hat  in  hand,  to  say  good-bye, 
she  stood  confronting  him  again,  very  near.  There  was  a  faint 
flush  on  her  smooth  cheek;  her  woman's  eyes  were  very 
bright;  her  look  upon  him  was  sweet,  self-conscious,  and  wist- 

264 


Angela's    Business 


ful,  oddly  appealing.  Rarely  had  he  seen  her  look  more  girl 
ishly  desirable. 

"Mr.  Garrott,  why  have  you  always  been  different  to  me 
since  that  night  —  of  my  bridge-party?  " 

"Different?"  queried  Mr.  Garrott. 

"Oh,  you  know  you  have!  You  know  you've  never  really 
got  over  what  I  said  to  you  —  and  all  that  dreadful  misunder 
standing!" 

And  he  knew  then  that  this  nice  girl  would  go  to  her  grave 
thinking  of  him  as  a  lover  whose  confidence  in  his  suit  had 
been  reft  from  him  by  a  too  sharp  rebuke.  Well,  so  be  it.  He 
was  content  that  she  should  have  that  satisfaction:  let  that 
stand  as  a  further  liquidation  of  the  old  obligation,  a  bonus 
payment  on  the  esteemed  Kiss. 

"You  know  you've  never  forgiven  me!" 

"I've  never  had  anything  to  forgive  you,  Miss  Flower." 

"Then  you  've  never  believed  I  've  forgiven  you!  I  Ve  tried 
to  show  you  that  I  have,  that  I  've  truly  appreciated  all  the 
nice  things  you  've  done  for  me  —  but  you  Ve  still  been  differ 
ent." 

It  was  doubtless  his  imagination,  but  she  seemed  to  be  a 
little  nearer  as  she  said,  with  a  pink  and  winsome  hesi 
tancy: — 

"  Can't  I  make  you  believe  that  I  —  I  've  really  always  been 
the  same?" 

Extending  his  hand,  the  voluntary  celibate  replied,  with 
cheerful  reassurance:  "I  believe  it  now,  Miss  Flower.  Abso 
lutely.  Positively.  And  now  I  must  run." 

Angela  did  not  seem  to  see  the  hand  he  offered.  She  con 
tinued  to  look  at  him,  and  something  seemed  to  die  out  of 
her  face,  —  a  momentary  expectancy,  was  it,  or  the  mere  na 
tive  optimism  of  youth?  Her  gaze  turned  away  from  his  face, 

265 


Angela's    Business 


turned  back  again;  and  then  she  suddenly  gave  a  little  laugh, 
an  odd  laugh,  half  angry,  half  sad:  — 

"Oh,  I  do  think  you're  absolutely  —  obtuse  /" 

And  Charles  then  knew  that,  whether  she  realized  it  or  not, 
Angela  was  giving  him  up. 

But  still  she  did  not  see  his  farewell  hand.  Her  eyes,  going 
past  him  again,  had  become  fixed  with  a  new  expression, 
arresting  him,  and  now  she  said,  in  another  tone,  what  he 
found  perhaps  the  most  interesting  remark  in  the  duologue:  — 

" Here's  Mr.  Manford  back!" 

Charles  wheeled,  with  a  little  jump. 

And  sure  enough,  there,  beyond  the  glass  of  the  door,  was 
the  form  of  the  young  engineer,  incredibly  returning.  Yes, 
there  he  came  back  again,  poor,  vain,  grinning,  flattered  fool, 
who  only  the  other  day  had  said:  "Charlie,  she  worries  me." 

With  one  last  look  at  Mr.  Garrott,  Angela  turned  to  open 
the  door  for  Mr.  Manford.  The  greeting  smile  succeeded  the 
good-bye  reproach.  And  even  in  this  disturbed  moment, 
the  writer's  mind  was  subtly  struck  with  the  symbolism  of  that 
gesture:  and  once  again  this  girl  was  a  type  to  him,  sister  of  a 
million  sisters.  Even  so,  must  the  womanly  Spinster,  through 
all  her  seeking  days,  turn  from  the  man  who  does  not  desire  her 
little  offerings  of  beauty  and  charm,  to  the  man  who  —  well, 
possibly  may.  And  it  really  was  n't  right,  was  n't  fair.  .  .  . 

"  Old  Sherlock !  —  sees  the  Fordette  outside  —  guesses  who  's 
at  home  now!"  the  man  who  possibly  might  was  saying,  with 
a  tone  of  buoyant  intimacy  and  a  repellent  smirk.  "  I  thought 
you  weren't  going  to  forget  me  altogether!  .  .  .  Oh!  And 
there's  Charlie-boy,  too!  Feeling  better,  old  top?" 

Charles  looked  through  him  in  silence. 

But  when  Angela  drifted  by  them  into  the  parlor  —  for  she 
avoided  any  formal  farewell  with  her  former  principal  friend 

266 


Angela's    Business 


—  and  he  was  passing  Donald  to  the  door,  he  bent  and  flung 
into  the  youth's  long  ear  one  futile  taunt:  — 
"Fool,  I  suppose  she  lent  you  the  sequel!" 

Before  the  dingy  little  house  of  the  Flowers',  there  stood  a 
line  of  waiting  vehicles.  The  passer  would  have  said  that  a 
reception,  or  perhaps  a  wedding,  was  going  on  within. 

To  the  left,  Mr.  Tilletts's  shining  sedan  still  stood  at  the 
broken  curb.  The  driver,  having  paused  to  exchange  badinage 
with  Walter  Taylor,  was  just  mounting  to  his  seat.  Full  in 
front  of  the  house  stood  a  conveyance  more  in  character  with 
the  unpretentious  street:  Charles  Garrott's  aged  hackney- 
coach,  in  short.  On  the  other  side,  at  the  nose  of  the  hack- 
horse  and  properly  leading  the  procession,  stood  the  stout 
little  Fordette,  resting  now  from  its  labors.  There  only  lacked 
a  bicycle  for  Mr.  Jenney,  and  something  —  a  donkey,  let  us 
say  —  to  stand  for  Donald  Manford. 

And  Angela,  indeed,  had  accomplished  this;  here  was  her 
true  creative  work,  here  her  self-expression  made  visible.  She 
it  was  who,  poor  and  obscure,  with  nobody  to  help  her,  had 
drawn  these  vehicles  and  these  gentlemen  thronging  about  her 
door. 

"  Where  toe,  suh?"  cried  Walter  Taylor,  flourishing  his 
whip. 

"Number  6  Olive  Street." 

The  fare  spoke  all  but  automatically,  out  of  his  new  genuine 
disquiet.  However,  he  corrected  himself  at  once:  "No  —  wait 
a  minute." 

If  his  position  that  she  was  just  the  wife  for  Donald  lay 
silently  abandoned  somewhere  behind  him:  if  the  business 
could  no  longer  be  viewed  as  Donald's  idle-hour  amusement, 
but  all  at  once  had  come  to  look  decidedly  serious:  still,  what 

267 


Angela's    Business 


under  heaven  was  the  use  of  giving  Mary  another  and  more 
rousing  warning?  He  had  warned  Mary  once,  and  what  was 
the  result?  Two  calls  from  Donald  to  Angela  in  the  course  of 
a  single  afternoon.  No;  if  the  labor  of  taking  off  was  now  to 
follow  "putting  on,"  it  was  clear  that  some  hand  far  subtler 
than  the  too  manly  Mary's  would  have  to  do  the  job.  And  he 
knew  whose  hand  was  plainly  indicated,  too.  .  .  . 

And  then  the  young  man  remembered,  with  a  surprising 
uprush  of  relief  and  freedom,  that  this  day  was  Friday,  and 
Donald  was  off  to  New  York  to-night,  within  an  hour  or  two. 
And  the  foolish  youth  would  be  gone  a  solid  week,  too,  with 
Mr.  Jenney  and  Mr.  Tilletts  left  in  possession  of  the  field. 

Thus,  Walter  Taylor,  on  his  box,  received  a  small  surprise. 
Instead  of  giving  him  a  new  number,  Mr.  Garrott  unexpect 
edly  produced  a  dollar-bill  from  his  pocketbook,  and  tossed  it 
up  to  him  with  a  sudden  laugh. 

"That's  all,  Walter.  I'll  walk!  " 


XIX 

DONALD  MANFORD'S  absence  in  far-away  New 
York  saw  the  calendar  into  February.  It  was  a 
month  which  for  some  time  had  held  a  fixed  place  in 
Charles's  thought,  as  Mary  Wing's  last  month  at  home.  Now 
the  days  had  brought  him  this  new  concern,  by  no  means  un 
related  to  Mary's  impending  departure.  That  Donald  was  his 
concern  now,  as  well  as  hers,  he  had  acknowledged,  once  and 
for  all,  in  that  moment  of  pause  by  the  hack:  and  none  saw 
more  clearly  than  he  that  the  acknowledgment  was  a  damag 
ing  one,  opening  long  vistas  of  annoying  possibilities.  Well  it 
might  be  that  all  he  had  once  planned  and  worried  for  him 
self,  and  much  more,  he  would  now  have  to  plan  and  worry  for 
his  weak  and  amorous  friend.  And  suppose  Mary  Wing  went 
off,  leaving  the  whole  business  still  unsettled? 

However,  there  was  no  use  in  borrowing  trouble.  For  the 
present,  Donald's  well-wishers  enjoyed  an  interlude  of  com 
plete  repose.  And  on  or  about  the  day  of  the  simpleton's  re 
turn  to  the  danger-zone,  it  was  recalled,  he  was  to  be  whisked 
off  again  to  the  Helen  Carson  house-party,  where  all  might 
end  happily  yet.  Mary  deserved  her  tittle  of  credit  for  that 
arrangement,  at  any  rate.  Charles,  making  the  most  of  these 
peaceful  days,  reconsecrated  himself  to  Letters  and  the  finding 
of  his  Line. 

Donald  himself  remained  pleasantly  unaware  of  the  diffi 
culties  created  by  his  unreliable  antics.  The  youth  was  known 
to  possess  a  common  combination  of  characteristics:  he  had  a 
novel-hero's  chin  and  an  underlying  soft  streak.  Donald  was 

269 


Angela's    Business 


a  little  ease-loving;  he  unconsciously  slanted  to  the  line  of 
least  resistance.  As  to  work,  Mary  Wing,  who  had  caught  him 
young,  had  pretty  well  ironed  out  his  softness;  yet  it  seemed 
to  persist  even  there.  Witness  his  dallying  for  a  moment  with 
an  "  office  proposition  "  in  New  York,  at  whatever  emolument, 
when  far  larger  professional  opportunities  awaited  him  in  a 
Wyoming  camp.  As  to  getting  himself  married  off,  Donald's 
traits  were  obviously  at  once  an  advantage  to  his  friends  and 
an  added  risk:  they  seemed  to  indicate  clearly  that  he  or  she 
who  had  his  ear  last,  and  took  the  strongest  hand  with  him, 
would  win  the  day.  Doubtless  his  truest  friends  were  most 
resolved  that  such  hand  should  be  theirs. 

At  any  rate,  the  young  squire's  presentation  of  himself  at 
the  Wings',  on  the  afternoon  of  the  day  he  got  back  from  New 
York,  was  by  appointment  strictly.  It  was  Friday  again,  a 
week  to  a  day  from  his  two  calls  upon  Angela.  Donald 
" stopped  by"  Olive  Street  on  his  hurried  way  uptown.  Hav 
ing  had  a  very  strenuous  part  of  a  day  in  his  office  at  Hoag, 
Hackett  &  Manford's,  and  having  a  number  of  things  still  to 
do  before  five  o'clock,  he  designed  to  give,  say,  ten  minutes  to 
his  call  upon  his  more  than  sister.  He  gave  thirty  minutes, 
and  emerged  into  the  sunshine  with  a  sobered  face.  And,  on 
leaving  Mary  thus,  almost  the  first  person  he  saw  next  was 
Mary's  special  friend,  Charles  Garrott,  bowling  by. 

The  eyes  of  the  young  men  met  and  Donald  nodded  gloom 
ily.  Charles,  as  it  happened,  was  but  taking  a  last  use  of  his 
car,  prior  to  the  old  lady's  return  on  Monday.  But  Donald 
did  not  know  that,  and  he  thought,  absently,  what  a  fool  old 
Charlie  was  to  ride  around  this  way  all  the  time,  when  he  had 
legs  and  could  walk  like  a  man.  At  the  same  moment,  Charles, 
inevitably,  was  thinking  what  a  fool  Donald  was,  for  exactly 
the  opposite  reason.  Never  again,  it  might  be,  would  Charles 

270 


Angela's    Business 


Carrot t  see  a  bachelor  walking  Washington  Street  alone,  with 
out  some  vague  sense  of  circumambient  peril. 

Charles  had  not  expected  to  take  up  the  new  worries  until 
after  the  match-making  house-party;  but  the  sight  of  Donald 
unprotected  out  there  made  an  irresistible  appeal  to  his  higher 
nature,  especially  as  no  trouble  to  himself  would  be  involved. 
Accordingly,  he  answered  Donald's  distrait  salute  with  de 
monstrative  smiles  and  signalings,  and  immediately  fired  an 
order  through  the  speaking-tube.  And  the  engineer,  sur 
prised,  saw  the  splendid  car  of  the  old  lady  stop  with  a  jerk, 
back,  wheel,  and  come  sliding  up  to  his  side  at  the  curb. 

"Well,  old  fellow!  Glad  to  see  you  back!"  said  Charles, 
hospitably  swinging  open  the  door.  "Hop  in  and  let  me  drive 
you  up!  I  want  to  hear  about  your  trip." 

Donald  was  faintly  pleased  by  this  unusual  attentiveness. 
He  was  one  of  those  extraordinary  persons  who  never  ride 
when  it  is  possible  to  walk;  on  the  other  hand,  he  seldom 
turned  away  from  the  chance  of  a  good  talk  about  himself. 
And  he  was  very  short  of  time  now,  too,  owing  to  his  deten 
tion  at  the  Wings'. 

So  he  stepped  into  the  limousine,  his  manner  abstracted  and 
distinctly  consequential. 

Charles,  smiling  slightly  to  himself,  gave  the  address,  and 
prompted:  — 

"  You're  just  back,  are  n't  you?" 

"  And  off  again  at  five  twenty-two.  And  I  've  got  two  hours' 
unpacking  and  repacking  to  do  before  then." 

"You  are  a  traveler  these  days!  What's  this,"  inquired 
Charles,  innocently  —  "another  business  trip?  " 

"House-party  at  the  Kingsleys',  down  at  Hatton.  Tell 
your  boy  to  skip  along  there,  Charlie.  I'm  in  a  rush." 

Amiably,  Charles  spoke  into  the  mouthpiece:  "Skip  along 

271 


Angela's    Business 


there,  Eustace.  Mr.  Manford's  in  a  rush."  And  resuming  he 
said,  with  an  air  of  honest  envy:  "At  the  Kingsleys'!  By 
George,  that  sounds  pretty  good!  Congenial  crowd,  winter 
sports,  dancing  every  night  —  you  're  in  luck!  Who's  going 
along?" 

Donald  named  the  guests.  It  did  not  escape  the  observant 
Charles  that  he  named  Miss  Carson  last,  after  a  perceptible 
pause  and  in  a  manner  clumsily  careless.  Nothing  escaped 
Charles,  not  Donald's  sober  face,  certainly  not  the  fact  that 
he  had  just  come  from  the  Wings'.  Now,  with  a  thrill  of 
satisfaction,  he  understood  that  Mary  had  been  talking  to 
the  young  light-o'-love  at  last,  giving  him  to  understand 
plainly  where  his  duty  lay.  And  this  look  of  Donald's  was 
precisely  the  right  look,  too:  just  the  intensely  self-important, 
nervous,  faintly  complacent,  highly  worried  look  of  a  man 
who  has  suddenly  learned  that  he  is  going  to  be  married 
directly. 

He  gave  the  strong  Mary  another  large  credit-mark,  and 
continued:  " Three  days  with  that  crowd!  —  how  I'd  like  to 
get  in!  As  for  poor  old  Talbott  —  ha,  ha! — he'll  foam  at  the 
mouth  when  I  tell  him  about  this." 

" What's  he  got  to  do  with  it?" 

"Why,  I  thought  you'd  heard!  Miss  Carson  knocked  him 
flat  with  one  look  —  that  lunch  of  mine!  He  can't  see  any 
body  else  since,  poor  chap.  But  he  admits  he  does  n't  make 
any  time  at  all." 

"She's  not  the  kind  that  takes  to  any  whippersnapper  that 
comes  along." 

His  odious  smugness  delighted  Charles.  So  did  his  fidgetings 
about,  his  hasty  glances  at  his  watch,  his  long  solemn  stares 
at  himself  in  the  little  mirror. 

"Poor  old  Talbott  swears  she  must  be  interested  in  some- 

272 


Angela's    Business 


body  else,"  laughed  Charles.  "But  he  confessed  he  could  n't 
think  of  a  man  he  knew  who  'd  be  at  all  likely  to  interest  a  girl 
like  that  —  I  either."  And  then,  not  to  overdo  it,  he  said 
interestedly:  "But,  Donald,  what  about  Blake  &  Steinert?" 

"Oh,  I  turned  'em  down,"  said  the  coming  fiance,  and 
briefly  expanded.  Of  the  fine  old  firm,  he  said:  "They  were 
associated  with  me  on  Hog  Bay  Breakwater."  Old  Blake  was 
a  prince;  Steinert  a  cracker  jack.  They  had  raised  their  offer, 
so  eager  were  they  to  get  him,  and  insisted  on  leaving  it  open 
for  him.  He  had  seen  all  the  shows,  lunched  at  five  clubs, 
"closed  up  several  important  deals,"  etc.,  etc. 

Dipping  up  his  watch  again,  Donald  said  suddenly:  "Seen 
Mary  lately?" 

This  being  none  of  his  business,  Charles  replied  with  a 
monosyllable. 

"Anything  wrong  between  you  two?" 

"Not  that  I'm  aware  of.  ...  Great  heavens!  I'm  a 
worker,  my  good  fellow !  I  have  n't  time  to  fuss  around  house- 
partying — pop-calling  —  all  the  time!  —  Not,  of  course,  that 
I  don't  wish  I  were  going  — " 

"Well,  you  won't  have  much  time  to  be  pop-calling  on 
Mary,"  reproved  Donald,  with  his  new  responsible  soberness. 
"Drop  around  this  afternoon,  Charlie,  after  your  lessons. 
See  if  you  can't  cheer  her  up  a  little." 

The  limousine  reeled  off  half  a  block  before  Charles  an 
swered:  "  Seems  I  'm  behind  the  times  again.  What  does  Miss 
Mary  need  to  be  cheered  up  about,  exactly?  " 

"What  d'  you  s'pose  now,  Charlie?  Going  off  to  New  York 
to  live,  herself;  me  off  to  Wyoming  for  two  years  at  least;  Aunt 
Ellen  moving  to  North  Carolina;  home  broken  up  —  why,  I 
tell  you  the  thing  is  the  worst  kind  of  smash-up!  I've  just 
been  with  Mary  —  never  saw  her  so  blue  in  my  life." 

273 


Angela's    Business 


Charles  said,  after  another  silence:  "But  she  understood  all 
that  from  the  beginning,  did  n't  she?  " 

"Understood  —  what's  that  got  to  do  with  it?  Besides, 
you  never  understand  things  till  you  get  right  down  to  'em. 
Take  me/'  said  Donald,  recurring  to  his  favorite  subject  with 
a  frown.  "I  had  n't  an  idea  how  much  I  was  going  to  mind 
this  business  —  ending  it  all  here,  moving  off  to  the  back  side 
of  nowhere  to  — " 

"Well,  don't  be  sentimental  about  it,  for  pity's  sake!  This 
is  a  realistic  story  we  're  living,  or  I  miss  my  guess  entirely.  — 
When  does  Miss  Mary  leave?" 

"Oh,  about  two  weeks,  I  believe,  but  — " 

"Two  weeks!" 

"Wensons  want  the  flat  around  the  2oth,  I  understand. 
We  did  n't  speak  of  that  just  now  —  Mary '11  tell  you  about  it. 
Let's  see,"  said  Donald,  fidgeting  about  and  looking  first 
out  one  window,  then  another.  "Going  to  your  mother's 
to-morrow,  I  suppose?  Drop  in  this  afternoon,  Charlie  —  or 
to-night.  And  that 's  so !  —  you  can  take  around  a  package 
for  me,  things  I  bought  for  Mary  in  New  York  —  oh,  neck- 
fichus,  silk  stockings  —  that  sort  of  stuff." 

But  the  thought  of  himself  as  Mary's  cheerer-up  at  this 
juncture  in  her  Career  was  bitterly  ironic  to  Charles,  and, 
answering  curtly  that  he  would  be  too  busy  to  run  errands 
this  afternoon,  he  changed  the  subject  at  once.  In  short,  when 
did  Donald  go  to  Wyoming?  Unable  to  resist  the  opening, 
Donald  said  that  he  would  probably  start  on  March  i5th;  and 
so  began  to  talk  fitfully  of  himself.  At  the  other  window, 
Charles  relapsed  into  thought.  He  did  not  speak  again  until 
the  car  rolled  up  to  the  entrance  of  the  showy  apartment- 
hotel  where  Donald  lived.  Then,  rousing  himself  abruptly, 
he  said,  with  a  well-done  air  of  negligent  sprightliness:  — 

274 


Angela's    Business 


"Oh,  by  the  by,  Donald  —  heard  anything  from  our  little 
friend  in  the  four-wheeler,  as  you  call  it?  I  have  n't  laid  eyes 
on  her  since  that  day  you  and  I  marched  up  like  little  soldiers 
to  give  back  her  books.  Funny,  that  was!  —  ha,  ha!" 

Donald's  face  of  a  young  man  about  to  be  married  changed 
perceptibly.  He  answered,  quite  stiffly :  — 

"I  fail  to  see  anything  funny  in  it.  Miss  Flower's  perfectly 
well,  I  believe." 

"Good!  —  glad  to  hear  it.  She  needs  her  health,  all  the 
driving  about  she  does.  .  .  .  Why,  where 'd  she  see  you 
to-day?" 

"I  didn't  say  I'd  seen  her  to-day,  that  I  remember.  By 
Jove,  I  don't  get  a  minute  to  see  anybody  or  anything,  rushed 
about  this  way  all  the  time!  .  .  .  Well!  Obliged  for  the  lift." 

"And  how  do  you  know  she's  well,  then?" 

"Because  she  told  me  so  over  the  telephone,  if  you  give  a 
darn!  What's  this  about,  anyway?" 

"Why,  not  a  thing!  Why,  my  dear  fellow!  Of  course,  I 
understand  perfectly!  You  don't  suppose  I  suspect  you  of 
being  old  Tilletts's  rival,  do  you?  Not  likely  —  ha,  ha !  No, 
I  think  it's  awfully  nice  of  you,  old  fellow,  knowing  as  I  do 
that  you  don't  admire  her  particularly.  That's  what  I  wanted 
to  say,"  proceeded  Charles,  laying  his  hand  affectionately  and 
detainingly  on  Donald's  arm.  "Of  course  you  know  she  does 
n't  have  much  of  a  time  —  attention  and  all  that  —  oh,  I  see 
through  you  perfectly!  It 's  just  Talbott  and  the  Oldmixon 
girls  over  again  — " 

"Oh,  she  told  me  about  you!"  said  Donald  in  a  bluster 
ing  manner;  and,  snatching  his  arm  away,  he  sprang  out  upon 
the  sidewalk. 

His  remark  evoked  curiosity;  but  Charles's  overweening 
interest  was  not  in  Angela  now.  And  he  was  thinking  intently: 

275 


Angela's    Business 


"  He 's  not  engaged  to  Helen  Carson  yet,  by  a  long  shot.  He 's 
not  even  at  the  station  —  that 's  a  mile  —  on  Washington 
Street.  I'd  better  keep  an  eye  on  you,  my  buck  .  .  ." 

Aloud  he  said:  "She  did?  —  nothing  good,  I  fear.  Here!  — 
wait  a  minute!  That  package  for  Miss  Mary,  Donald  —  I 
expect  you  'd  better  leave  it  for  me  to  take,  after  all.  I  '11  find 
some  way  to  get  it  around  to  her  — " 

" All  right—  " 

"You  bring  it  by  as  you  start  for  the  station,  that's  the 
best  way.  Then  we'll  drive  down  together,"  said  Charles, 
fixing  his  friend  with  a  compelling  gaze.  "I've  —  ah  —  got 
some  things  I  want  to  talk  to  you  about." 

"  I  '11  bring  it  by,"  said  Donald,  non-committally,  and  rushed 
away. 

He  went  up  seven  floors,  telephoned  for  the  "staff  valet," 
and  proceeded  to  business.  There  was  a  period  of  the  wildest 
activity.  At  the  end  of  it,  the  hour  being  then  too  late  for  hope 
that  any  expressman  would  make  the  train  with  the  trunk, 
Donald  engaged  the  valet  to  secure  a  carriage,  take  down  and 
check  the  baggage,  get  him  a  ticket  and  a  seat,  and  be  waiting 
for  him  with  these  things  at  a  given  point.  In  such  slapdash, 
inefficient  fashion  this  young  man  conducted  all  his  personal 
life. 

"And  mind  you  see  the  baggage  on  the  train,"  he  warned 
the  fellow.  "This  is  an  important  trip." 

He  shot  down  again,  dressed  to  "kill"  the  house-party,  but 
lugging  a  large  box,  and  strode  out  into  the  fading  sunshine. 
Before  the  hotel  door,  to  his  surprise,  stood  Charlie  Garrott's 
borrowed  car,  empty,  and  before  the  car  stood  Charlie 
Garrott's  borrowed  driver,  greeting  him  with  all  his  teeth. 

"What 're  you  waiting  here  for?"  said  Donald,  staring. 

"Goin'  to  drive  you  an'  Mist'  Garrott  to  the  deepo  — 

276 


Angela's    Business 


yessuh!   Mist'  Garrott  tole  me  to  wait  right  here  an'  bring 
you  round,  suh!" 

Donald  again  was  rather  touched  by  the  thoughtfulness  of 
his  friend.  Take  him  all  in  all,  old  Charlie  was  a  pretty  good 
fellow.  However,  he  would  have  ridden  down  in  the  hack  with 
the  valet,  if  he  had  wanted  to  ride.  Of  course,  he  might  send 
the  box  around  by  this  fellow  —  but  no,  if  old  Charlie  was 
expecting  him,  that  would  seem  pretty  short,  particularly  as 
Mrs.  Herman's  was  right  on  his  way. 

"  I  'm  much  obliged  to  you  —  er  —  Eustace  —  but  I  '11 
walk,  I  guess.  I  have  n't  had  any  exercise  to-day." 

"Boss,  he  say  you  mout  not  ketch  yo'  train  if  you  was  to 
walk." 

" Oh,  I've  got  plenty  of  time  for  the  train  —  plenty!"  said 
Donald,  hastily,  and  shifted  the  box  to  look  at  his  watch  again. 
"I'll  leave  word  for  Mr.  Garrott  myself." 

"Suh!  Thank  you  kindly,  suh!" 

Donald  swung  off  toward  Mrs.  Herman's,  but  three  blocks 
distant.  Behind  him,  unobserved,  trailed  the  old  lady's  lim 
ousine,  very  slow.  When  he  was  still  a  block  from  his  des 
tination,  the  hurrying  young  man  was  all  at  once  struck  with 
an  annoying  recollection.  "Curses!"  he  groaned.  "I  forgot 
my  sweater!"  That  meant  that  he  would  have  to  go  back, 
without  doubt:  for  the  sweater  was  a  brand-new  one,  of 
brilliant  Australian  wool,  and  specially  purchased  in  New 
York  for  the  winter-sports.  Donald,  accordingly,  felt  unable 
to  linger  over  his  good-bye  messages  to  Charles.  He  said  hur 
riedly  to  Mrs.  Herman,  who  opened  the  door  for  him:  "How- 
do!  Please  give  this  box  to  Mr.  Garrott,  and  tell  him  I  de 
cided  to  walk.  He'll  understand."  And  on  that,  he  sprang 
away  down  the  steps,  two  at  a  time,  and  started  swiftly  back 
to  '.the  Bellingham. 

277 


Angela's    Business 


But  just  as  he  reached  the  corner,  he  was  suddenly  ar 
rested  by  the  sound  of  his  own  name,  rolling  loudly  after 
him  down  the  street. 

"Donald!  Hi,  there!  Stop!  " 

Donald  halting,  looked  upward  and  all  about  him.  Pres 
ently,  through  the  top  branches  of  an  intervening  tree,  he 
descried  Charles  Garrott  leaning  far  out  of  Mrs.  Herman's 
third-story  window.  "Well?"  called  Donald. 

"What's  the  matter?  Where 're  you  going?"  demanded 
Charles  in  a  voice  that  broke  easily  through  the  tree.  "I  said 
we'd  drive  down  together!" 

He  was  heard  continuing  in  another  tone:  "No!  Stop, 
Eustace!  Don't  go  away  —  I  want  you!" 

"Much  obliged,"  shouted  Donald,  "but  I'd  rather  walk." 

Charles  said  something  out  the  window,  which  Donald  failed 
to  catch. 

"What  say?" 

"You  come  back!  "  cried  Charles,  beckoning,  while  passing 
pedestrians  craned  their  necks  upward.  "Wait  for  me  —  just 
a  minute  —  I  'm  all  ready !  And  I  've  got  to  speak  to  you  — • 
about  several  things!  About  the  package!" 

But  Donald,  objecting  to  the  attention  they  were  attract 
ing,  shook  his  head  decisively.  "Have  n't  time  now.  Forgot 
something  .  .  .  back  to  my  rooms." 

"If  you  have  n't  time  to  wait,  you  certainly  have  n't  time 
to  walk  back  to  your  rooms!  You're  going  to  miss  your  train 
with  all  this  walking! " 

That  was  pointed  enough  to  cause  Donald  to  pause  again, 
and  look  at  his  watch  for  the  twentieth  time.  He  found  that 
he  still  had  twenty-five  minutes,  time  enough,  of  course,  but 
then  he  might  have  to  hunt  for  the  sweater,  and  there  was  the 
business  of  the  luggage  at  the  station,  too. 


Angela's    Business 


Down  through  the  branches  boomed  the  strangely  insistent 
voice  of  Charles:  "Why,  by  George  !  You Ve  only  got  twenty 
minutes.  Here,  take  my  car  there,  quick!  You  can  barely 
make  it,  driving  fast  ..." 

And  in  a  lower  voice  he  said:  "After  him,  Eustace!  Get 
him  to  the  station  as  fast  as  you  can.  Don't  fail  this  time." 

Donald  was  hesitating,  struck  as  Charles  meant  him  to  be, 
with  the  fear  that  his  watch  might  be  slow.  He  now  called, 
with  evidences  of  ill-humor  and  disturbance:  — 

"All  right,  then!  But  I  can't  stop  for  you." 

"Oh,  that's  all  right,  old  fellow  —  my  matters  can  wait! 
I'll  look  out  for  the  package!  Just  you  catch  your  train, 
that 'sail!" 

Continuing  to  lean  out  of  the  Studio  window,  Charles 
watched  the  dullard  step  into  the  old  lady's  tightly  closed  car, 
and  whirl  away  —  safe  at  last.  As  the  car  shot  round  the 
corner,  he  suddenly  laughed  aloud:  a  triumphant  laugh,  but 
charged  with  irritation,  too. 

Then  Charles,  aloft,  drew  head  and  torso  back  into  the 
Studio,  banged  shut  the  window,  and  found  Mrs.  Herman 
just  plumping  the  large  white  box  of  things  for  Mary  down  on 
his  writing-table.  The  spectacle  brought  forward  the  other 
matter  instantly.  Of  course,  he  had  agreed  to  receive  the  box 
purely  as  a  means  of  keeping  an  eye  on  Donald. 

"Oh,  yes  —  as  to  the  package,  Mrs.  Herman,  perhaps  you 
would  n't  mind  taking  it  down  as  you  go,  and  just  leaving  it 
on  the  hall  table?  I  —  ah  —  shall  probably  call  a  messenger 
to  take  it  —  a  little  later." 

"Certainly,  Mr.  Garrott,"  said  Mrs.  Herman,  picking  up 
the  box  again.  "And  oh,  would  you  mind  telling  the  Judge 
I  'd  like  to  speak  to  him  a  minute  before  he  goes  out?  " 

"Certainly,  Mrs.  Herman." 

279 


Angela's    Business 


The  landlady,  lingering,  said:  "He  seems  in  poor  spirits, 
don't  you  think  so,  Mr.  Garrott?  His  appetite  is  not  what  it 
was.  And  he  goes  out  and  takes  these  long  walks,  alone,  day 
after  day,  or  sits  here  by  himself  in  the  Studio.  I  don't  think 
it's  good  for  him.  I  think  he  broods." 

"It's  nothing  serious,  Mrs.  Herman.  He's  annoyed  with 
me,  I  fear,  for  giving  up  some  physical  culture  exercises  which 
he  hoped  might  make  a  man  of  me  yet.  Also,  for  being  such 
a  continuous  failure  as  a  writer." 

"But  it's  not  your  fault,  Mr.  Garrott!  You  do  the  very 
best  you  can,  I  'm  sure.  The  Judge  is  unreasonable  —  that 's 
what  I  say.  Oh,  I  could  coax  him  into  a  good  humor  easily 
enough,  but  I  scarcely  ever  see  him  nowadays,  except  at  meal 
times.  I  can't  very  well  offer  to  go  with  him  on  his  walks, 
can  I?  —  but  I'm  sure  the  solitude  is  bad  for  him." 

"Ah,  you  should  get  yourself  a  little  Fordette,  Mrs. 
Herman." 

"And  what  is  a  little  Fordette,  Mr.  Garrott?" 

"  Oh  —  simply  a  sort  of  wheeled  device  for  going  with 
people  on  their  walks.  I'm  explaining  it  in  a  story.  But," 
said  Charles,  "I  won't  fail  to  give  the  Judge  your  message." 

Left  alone,  the  young  man  stood  for  a  space  in  the  middle 
of  the  floor,  gazing  intently  at  nothing.  Then  he  seated  him 
self  at  his  table  and  produced  manuscript  from  the  drawer. 
Then  he  put  the  manuscript  back  in  the  drawer,  and  stared 
at  nothing  again.  Finally,  he  rose,  opened  the  bedroom  door 
quietly,  and  said:  — 

"Judge,  I  find  I  have  to  go  out  for  a  little  while." 

Judge  Blenso,  in  the  bedroom,  received  the  friendly 
information,  and  then  his  message  from  Mrs.  Herman,  with 
only  a  cold  "Very  well!"  He  stood  at  a  long  board,  balanced 
on  two  distant  chair-backs,  listlessly  pressing  the  trousers  he 

280 


Angela's    Business 


did  n't  have  on;  his  instrument  being  a  patent  electric-flatiron, 
which  consumed  quantities  of  current,  which  indeed  fairly 
gave  the  measure  of  his  landlady's  adoration.  Catch  Mrs. 
Herman  letting  Two-Book  McGee  use  so  much  as  an  electric 
curling-iron  in  the  Second  Hall  Back! 

"And  Judge,"  added  Charles,  conciliatingly,  "please  don't 
bother  to  take  that  manuscript  to  the  express-office  —  I  mean 
'Bandwomen'  —  unless  you  really  want  the  walk." 

"Very  well!  I  hear  you!  Good  gad,  very  well!"  said  the 
Judge. 

Charles  shut  the  door,  regretfully.  It  had  been  like  this 
between  them  for  some  weeks  now.  Even  his  generosity  in 
quietly  yielding  the  name  of  his  own  only  novel  produced  no 
softening  effect  on  his  secretary's  cold  bored  disapprobation. 

He  put  on  hat  and  overcoat,  descended  two  flights,  picked 
up  the  box  of  things  for  Mary,  and  went  out  upon  his  er 
rand.  He  walked  slowly,  down  Mason  Street  to  Olive,  and 
at  Olive  turned  south. 

For  the  second  time,  Donald  had  contrived  to  force  his 
hand  in  regard  to  Mary:  he  was  conscious  of  resenting  that. 
Still  —  of  course  he  had  never  meant  to  let  the  old  friendship 
end  in  estrangement,  and  doubtless  the  casual  pretext  of  the 
box  was  better  than  the  formal  "call"  next  week  he  had  had 
in  mind.  To  appear  as  Mary's  cheerer-up  now  was,  indeed, 
considerably  beyond  him.  Nevertheless,  he  was  well  aware 
that  what  Donald  had  told  him  in  this  connection  had  made 
an  instant  difference  in  his  feeling,  made  him  readier  to  be 
friends  again.  If  only  she  had  felt  and  realized  all  this  in  the 
beginning,  if  only  she  had  showed  him  so  that  day  over  the 
telephone.  .  .  . 

Still,  feeling  was  n't  enough,  unfortunately.  There  was  this 
whole  business  about  Donald,  for  instance.  In  one  way  he 

281 


Angela's    Business 


could  think  of  that  almost  pleasurably.  Mary  seemed  to  sup 
pose  that  if  she  but  arranged  a  house-party  and  gave  Donald 
a  sound  talking  to  in  advance,  the  whole  thing  was  settled, 
down  to  the  orange-blossoms.  It  required  him  to  revise  her 
crude  plannings,  put  in  the  omitted  finesse,  and  deliver 
Donald  safely  at  the  station.  But  Charles,  pacing  gravely 
toward  the  unpremeditated  meeting,  large  box  under  his  arm, 
found  his  thought  of  the  episode  continually  seeking  deeper 
levels.  If,  two  weeks  from  now,  Donald  was  still  not  engaged 
to  Helen,  whose  was  to  be  the  responsibility  of  pushing  him 
on?  Not  Mary's,  evidently.  Was  not  this  youth,  in  fact,  but 
one  more  of  those  countless  intimate  obligations  which  strong 
women  must  "hack  away,"  when  resolved  to  lead  their  own 
lives?  Donald  was  the  apple  of  Mary's  eye.  Normally  speak 
ing,  she  was  ready  to  do  anything  for  him.  But  it  seemed  that 
even  Donald,  if  he  crossed  the  trail  of  the  Career,  would  have 
to  look  to  himself. 

Or,  more  probably,  he,  Charles,  would  have  to  look  out  for 
him. 

At  the  corner  of  Washington  Street,  pausing,  the  meditative 
young  man  consulted  his  watch;  he  shifted  the  box  for  the 
purpose  just  as  Donald  had  done  a  few  minutes  earlier.  It  was 
quarter  past  five,  exactly.  Donald  would  be  at  the  station 
now,  without  doubt,  safe  on  the  train.  Well,  here  was  one 
thing  he  had  done  for  Mary,  at  any  rate,  as  he  should  not  fail 
to  indicate  to  her.  And  thus,  insensibly,  his  thought  slipped 
into  the  pleasurable  vein  again,  the  superior,  masterful  vein, 
and  his  mind  composed  the  light  ironic  sentences  with  which 
he  should  make  known  to  Mary  her  remissness  and  his  own 
subtle  services. 

Stepping  down  from  the  curb  in  this  brown  study,  he  all  but 
walked  into  a  motor-car  whirring  by:  a  car  that  was  steal- 

282 


Angela's    Business 


ing  the  wrong  side  of  the  street,  and  cutting  close  to  the  side 
walk  at  that.  Charles  stopped  and  stepped  back,  just  in  time. 
And  then,  all  in  the  same  breath,  his  ears,  his  eyes,  and  his 
nostrils  telegraphed  his  brain  what  car,  and  whose,  this  was. 
It  was  the  Fordette,  none  other,  going  at  an  unprecedented 
speed,  now  curving  back  dangerously  to  the  side  where  it 
belonged.  On  a  cloud  of  the  dark  smoke  it  sometimes  emitted, 
Angela's  girlish  laugh  came  floating  back  to  him  distinctly. 
But  Charles's  gaze  was  fixed  on  the  figure  of  the  man  who  sat 
at  Angela's  side  and  held  the  Fordette  wheel;  and  his  eyes 
all  but  started  from  his  head  as  he  perceived  that  it  was 
Donald.  .  .  . 

Yes,  it  was  poor  Donald  fast  in  the  Home-Making  con 
veyance:  Donald,  snatched,  she  alone  knew  how,  from  his 
wedding-coach. 


XX 


THE  famous  Secretary  sat  at  her  desk  in  the  well-kept 
sitting-room.  She  sat  in  the  midst  of  documents  and 
letters;  large  white  sheets  of  her  Education  League 
writing-paper  lay  before  her,  the  topmost  sheet  nearly  filled 
with  her  neat  chirography.  Oblivious  to  small  happenings  in 
the  world  without,  the  Secretary  was  deep  in  her  distinguished 
correspondence.  But  her  desk,  as  it  happened,  stood  in  the 
window,  and  the  Secretary,  after  all,  was  not  so  immersed  in 
her  affairs  but  that  she  looked  out  into  the  Park  now  and  then, 
sometimes  for  whole  minutes  together.  She  looked,  too,  into 
the  quiet  street  before  the  house.  And  so  it  was  that  her  eyes, 
in  time,  fell  upon  the  familiar  figure  of  Charles  Garrott;  strid 
ing  all  at  once  into  her  range,  turning  swiftly  in  at  her  door, 
vanishing  again  into  her  vestibule,  scarcely  five  feet  from  where 
she  sat. 

Though  thus  aware  that  she  was  about  to  have  a  caller, 
Mary  did  not  at  once  spring  up  to  go  and  welcome  him.  She 
sat,  entirely  motionless,  her  permanently  questioning  gaze 
fixed  on  the  spot  where  the  caller  had  passed  from  view.  The 
ringing  of  the  bell  scarcely  seemed  to  penetrate  her  conscious 
ness.  But  then,  in  a  moment,  she  dropped  her  pen  quickly, 
and  rose.  Standing,  she  locked  her  two  hands  together  before 
her,  very  tight,  released  them  again,  passed  out  into  the  hall, 
and  opened  her  front  door. 

"  Good-afternoon !  This  is  an  unexpected  pleasure,"  said 
she,  in  her  natural  voice,  or  very  near  it.  " Come  in!  —  or  can 
you?" 

284 


Angela's    Business 


Her  visitor  looked  full  at  her  from  the  vestibule,  unsmiling. 

"Oh,  certainly  —  if  you're  not  too  busy!  It's  what  I  am 
here  for.  How  do  you  do  to-day?" 

"That's  nice!  You  don't  often  honor  us,  and  —  I  feared 
you  had  merely  stopped  to  leave  that  package." 

"  Ah,  yes!  —  the  package!  Some  things  Donald  got  for  you 

—  I  suppose  you  know?  He  asked  me — " 

"Oh!  I'm  afraid  that  was  very  much  of  an  imposition  — 
and  I  was  really  in  no  hurry  for  them  at  all." 

She  thanked  him,  relieved  him  of  the  pretextual  box,  laid 
it  on  the  hall  table,  and,  with  inevitable  but  extreme  infelicity, 
continued:  — 

"You  saw  Donald  to-day,  then?" 

A  small  silence  preceded  his  controlled  reply  "Oh,  yes!  —  I 
saw  him." 

"  I  Ve  just  packed  him  off  to  a  house-party  at  the  Kingsleys' 

—  to  make  love  to  Helen  Carson.  But  perhaps  he  told  you?  " 
In  the  large  mirror  overhanging  the  table,  the  eyes  of  the 

once  excellent  friends  briefly  encountered.    She  was  puzzled 
by  the  quality  of  his  grave  gaze. 

"He  did  mention  a  house-party,  I  believe.  But  — " 
Turning  away  toward  the  sitting-room,  Mary   filled  the 
pause  with  a  little  laugh:  "But  you  think  he  won't  make  love 
to  Helen,  perhaps?" 

The  grave  young  man,  following  her,  did  not  burst  forth, 
even  then.  His  restraint  seemed  curious,  even  to  himself. 
Crossing  Washington  Street  just  now,  he  had  been  full  enough 
of  plain  speech,  for  this  young  woman's  good.  "  I  Ve  had  quite 
enough  of  this!"  he  would  say  to  her.  "I  can't  and  won't 
give  up  my  afternoons,  my  life,  to  playing  nurse  to  Donald. 
If  you  are  satisfied  to  have  him  marry  Miss  Angela,  well  and 
good.  If  not  —  "  and  then  a  last  warning,  far  sharper,  far 

285 


Angela's    Business 


more  direct,  than  the  other.  But  then  as  he  waited  upon  her 
steps,  and  then  as  he  looked  at  her  in  the  door,  the  springs  of 
this  trivial  anger  had  seemed  mysteriously  to  subside  and  dry 
up.  No  doubt  the  Career-Maker's  own  look  had  something 
to  do  with  that.  Her  face  in  the  afternoon  light  was  seen  to  be 
thin  and  tired;  he  thought  he  detected  faint  circles  under  her 
eyes,  a  slightly  pinched  look  about  her  nostrils.  But  beyond 
all  that,  beyond  any  question  of  "sympathy,"  or  cheering-up, 
it  seemed  that  the  affair  itself  had  suddenly  shrunk  in  impor 
tance.  Donald's  folly,  Angela's  little  foibles,  seemed  to  matter 
less  to  Charles  as  he  found  himself  looking  again  at  the  depart 
ing  heroine  of  his  write-ups. 

So  he  discharged  his  bolt  with  restrained  formality:  "It 
is  n't  that.  I  was  only  wondering  whether  or  not  you  had 
packed  him  off,  as  yet." 

"Oh!  —  but  have  n't  I?  ...  I  don't  understand." 

"  I  happened  to  see  him  a  minute  ago,  driving  on  Washing 
ton  Street  with  your  cousin  —  Miss  Angela." 

It  was  clear  that  the  topic  had  lost  no  interest  for  Mary, 
at  any  rate.  She  stopped  short  in  the  middle  of  the  floor, 
utterly  taken  aback. 

"Donald!  —  as  you  came  here?" 

And,  instantly  recovering  from  mere  astonishment,  her 
capable  gaze  flew  to  the  little  watch  on  her  wrist. 

Charles  reassured  her,  as  dryly  as  possible:  "However,  they 
were  headed  toward  the  station,  and  going  as  fast  as  they 
could.  I  think  he  will  make  his  train." 

" But  —  it's  not  possible,  I 'm  afraid!  His  train  goes  at  five 
twenty-two  —  it's  just  that  now!  .  .  .  Ah,  how  could  he!" 

Producing  his  own  valued  chronometer,  the  young  man 
compared  it  with  the  educator's  small  trinket. 

"  I  believe  you  're  a  little  fast,  are  n't  you?  I  'm  five-eighteen. 

286 


Angela's    Business 


And  it  was  just  quarter  past  when  I  saw  them,  for  I  looked 
to  see.  That  gave  him  seven  minutes  — " 

"Yes  —  well!  —  but  Angela's  little  car  is  so  slow  — " 

"Oh!  —  it  can  go  fast  enough  for  practical  purposes  —  I've 
observed.  Besides,  Donald  may  have  telephoned  and  found 
that  the  train  was  late." 

"Yes  — that's  true." 

Mary  Wing  looked  toward  the  window,  characteristically 
composed  again,  but  evidently  concerned  enough. 

"  Well,  I  hope  so.  It  would  be  too  stupid  of  him  to  miss  it, 
after  all  ...  I  can't  think  how  he  happened  to  be  with 
Angela  —  at  the  last  minute  this  way." 

"How,  indeed?  But  sit  down,  do,  and  I'll  tell  you  why  it 
seems  particularly — mystifying  to  me.  I  hope,"  the  formal 
caller  added,  with  a  glance  toward  the  busy-looking  desk, 
"I'm  not  interrupting?" 

The  General  Secretary  said  no,  with  some  brevity. 

In  sentences  less  copious  and  biting  than  he  had  sketched 
out  on  the  corner,  Charles  recited  the  history  of  his  futile 
afternoon.  He  could  not,  indeed,  believe  it  possible  that 
Donald,  having  donned  the  solemn  bridegroom  look  for  Helen 
Carson,  would  deliberately  throw  it  off  again  for  the  sake  of  a 
short  drive  in  the  Fordette:  which,  to  say  the  least  of  it,  could 
be  had  at  any  time  at  his  desire.  Nor  was  Donald  really  a 
born  fool,  who  would  miss  a  train  through  sheer  childish  care 
lessness.  The  inference  was  that,  encountering  Angela,  acci 
dentally  (more  or  less),  just  after  his  second  start,  the  youth 
had  calculated  that  he  still  had  time  to  spare ;  and  so  had  con 
sented  to  exchange  the  speedy  limousine  for  the  Fordette: 
quite  probably  in  no  spirit  more  serious  than  that  of  a  venture 
some  lark.  Charles's  remarks,  at  least,  took  these  generous 
grounds,  reassuring  as  to  the  moment.  And  still  a  tinge  of 

287 


Angela's    Business 


exasperation  crept  into  his  account  of  his  wasted  labors.  And 
still  something  in  him  seemed  to  require  that  he  should  bring 
these  small  responsibilities  home  where  they  belonged,  for 
once:  leaving  them  on  her  doorstep,  as  it  were,  for  her  to  jump 
over  when  she  went  away. 

But  his  story,  inevitably,  was  one  of  ungallant  efforts  to 
evade  impending  pursuit.  And  when,  to  point  up  his  lesson, 
he  guardedly  suggested  a  connection  between  the  natural 
ambitions  of  Miss  Angela,  and  the  two  complete  transplanta 
tions  of  her  family,  Mary  Wing  seemed  to  gather  more  of  his 
purely  private  thought  than  he  had  intended.  One  of  her 
intent  interrogative  stares  brought  him  to  an  unintended 
pause.  And  she  commented  quietly,  but  rebukingly,  he 
considered:  — 

"You  seem  to  have  changed  your  opinion  of  Angela  since 
last  week." 

There,  of  course,  he  hardly  cared  to  justify  himself.  He 
could  not  well  explain  what  Angela's  resemblance  to  her  mo 
ther  had  signified  to  him,  and  why  he  considered  poor  Dr. 
Flower  the  most  magnificent  romanticist  in  the  world. 

"I  merely  suggest,"  he  said,  with  stiffening  dignity,  "that 
she  does  seem  to  be  much  interested  in  Donald  —  and  he  in 
her  —  now.  I  happen  to  know  that  he  called  on  her  twice  the 
day  he  left  for  New  York,  and  talked  with  her  over  the  tele 
phone  this  morning.  But  you  mistake  me,  if  you  think  I  mean 
to  criticize  your  cousin  —  personally.  I  hope  I  understand 
better  than  that  how  —  all  this  —  is  as  logical  and  mathemat 
ical  as  a  natural  law.  How  far  in  the  other  direction  the  edu 
cation  of  women  ought  to  take  them  .  .  .  that,  of  course,  is 
not  for  me  to  guess.  .  .  .  My  point  is  only  that  these  —  these 
perfectly  logical  ambitions  —  are  strong  enough  to  be  taken 
seriously  by  those  who  mean  to  oppose  them." 

288 


Angela's    Business 


"  Do  you  doubt  that  I  take  this  seriously?  " 

"  I  have  doubted  it,  I  must  admit.  .  .  .  Suppose  this  house- 
party  comes  to  nothing,  what  do  you  mean  to  do?  " 

The  former  heroine  of  the  write-ups  did  not  answer  him  at 
once.  She  sat  in  a  straight  chair,  half-sidewise,  a  considerable 
distance  away;  her  arm  was  laid  along  the  chair-back,  her 
cheek  sunk  upon  her  hand.  Something  in  the  pose  made 
the  caller  think  of  Donald's  exaggerated  statement,  that  he 
had  never  seen  Mary  so  blue  in  his  life. 

When  she  spoke,  it  was  not  again  to  suggest,  offhand,  that 
he  should  save  Donald  by  stepping  in. 

"You  are  right,  of  course,"  she  said  with  a  certain  dignity 
herself.  "I  have  n't  been  thinking  of  it  as  seriously  as  I  should 
—  evidently.  Now  —  if  this  does  n't  come  to  anything  —  I  '11 
need  some  time  to  plan  about  it." 

"It's  going  to  be  rather  troublesome,  I'm  afraid.  And  you 
j » 

"  I  '11  make  it  my  chief  interest,  you  may  be  sure." 
Then  the  stiff  caller,  examining  his  shirt-cuff  as  if  he  had 
never  seen  such  an  object  before,  released  his  logical  comment: 
"But  I'm  afraid  you  have  n't  left  yourself  a  great  deal  of 
time,  have  you?  Two  weeks  may  prove  rather  a  small  allow 
ance  —  for  a  difficult  matter  like  this." 

"  Oh,  I  —  hope  there  will  be  time  enough.  Meantime,  I  — " 
"I  had  n't  realized  you  were  going  so  soon,  you  see.  That 
will  add  to  the  difficulties,  I  'm  afraid.  Donald  says  you  expect 
to  leave  on  the  2oth." 

He  meant  his  rejoinders  to  be  unanswerable,  and  she  seemed 
to  find  them  so.  Glancing  up  from  his  cuff  in  the  silence, 
Charles  found  his  famous  friend's  eyes  fixed  upon  him  in  a 
strange  gaze,  which  her  lids  and  lashes  veiled  at  once.  Had 
that  look  struck  him  from  any  other  eyes  in  the  world,  he 

289 


Angela's    Business 


would  have  labeled  it  reproachful,  without  the  smallest  hesita 
tion.  But  Mary  was  never  reproachful:  she  scarcely  thought 
enough  of  him  for  that;  and,  besides,  the  shoe  was  on  the  other 
foot,  as  she  should  know  very  well. 

"I  did  say  something  of  the  sort  last  week,  I  believe  — 
though  no  day  was  really  settled  on.  But  it  was  very  nice  of 
you,"  she  went  on  naturally  enough,  but  with  too  evident  a 
wish  to  shift  the  conversation,  "  to  take  so  much  trouble  about 
it  to-day.  I  do  appreciate  all  your  interest  in  it  —  and  I  do 
believe  it 's  going  to  turn  out  right,  too.  Donald  certainly  left 
me  with  that  feeling,  this  afternoon.  So  don't  let's  bother 
about  it  any  more  now,"  said  Mary.  "I  'd  much  rather  hear — 
some  more  about  your  writing.  I  hope  you  've  gotten  the  book 
well  started  now?" 

But  Charles,  unique  among  the  writers  of  the  world,  did  not 
want  to  talk  about  himself  to-day.  No,  he  had  found  the  topic 
for  him  now. 

"No!  —  I  have  n't,  I'm  sorry  to  say.  Your  arrangements 
are  all  made,  are  n't  they?  Judge  Blenso  tells  me  you're  going 
to  live  with  Sophy  Stein,  who  used  to  run  the  Pure  Food 
laboratories  here?  " 

Again  her  brief  look  seemed  to  thrust  upon  him  like  a  hand, 
and  again  her  reply  glanced  off:  — 

"  Yes  —  I  was  planning  to  live  with  her.  You  knew  her, 
did  n't  you,  when  — " 

"I  was  going  to  say  —  if  everything  is  arranged,  perhaps 
you  would  n't  need  to  start  so  early.  ...  Of  course,  the  idea 
of  your  friends  here  would  be  that  you  should  wait  till  the 
last  day." 

As  she  neither  approved  nor  rejected  this  amiable  sug 
gestion,  Charles  said:  "How  does  that  idea  appeal  to 
you?" 

290 


Angela's    Business 


To  his  surprise,  instead  of  answering  his  question,  Mary 
rose  abruptly  and  went  over  to  her  desk.  He  then  assumed 
that  she  wished  to  show  him  some  letter  bearing  on  her 
arrangements  for  her  new  life.  But  it  seemed  that  her  move 
ment  had  no  such  object.  She  merely  stood  there  a  moment, 
fingering  her  papers  in  an  irresolute  sort  of  way;  and  then, 
without  a  word,  she  moved  a  little  farther,  and  stood,  looking 
out  of  the  window. 

He  said,  at  once  with  bewilderment  and  with  increasing 
constraint:  "Or  possibly  you  don't  wish  me  to  know  when  you 
are  going?" 

Then  Mary  Wing  turned  in  the  dying  light,  and  said,  not 
dramatically  at  all,  but  in  her  quietest  everyday  voice:  — 

"No,  I  don't  mind  your  knowing.   I'm  not  going." 

And  still  the  authority  on  women  did  not  understand. 

"  Not  going  —  when?  " 

"I've  decided  not  to  accept  the  appointment." 

And,  sitting  down,  suddenly  and  purposelessly  at  her  desk, 
the  young  woman  of  the  Career  added  in  a  rather  let-down 
voice:  "I  have  n't  told  anybody  at  all  yet.  I  just  decided  — 
last  night." 

Then  came  silence  into  the  twilight  sitting-room,  surely  a 
silence  like  none  here  before  it.  In  the  Wings'  best  chair,  the 
caller  sat  still  as  a  marble  man,  while  the  little  noises  from  the 
street  grew  loud  and  louder.  And  then,  quite  abruptly  and 
mechanically,  he  began  to  rise,  exactly  as  if  an  unseen  spirit 
were  lifting  him  bodily  by  the  hair.  And  he  could  feel  all  the 
blood  drawing  out  of  his  face. 

"Not  going  to  accept  the  appointment,"  he  echoed  sud 
denly,  in  a  queer  voice. 

And  then,  as  if  so  reminded  that  his  tongue  possessed  this 
accomplishment,  he  all  at  once  burst  out:  "Why  —  but  — 

291 


Angela's    Business 


why!  You  have  accepted  it!  It  was  settled!  —  long  ago!  Not 
going!  —  what  do  you  mean?   Why,  what's  happened?" 

The  young  woman  seated  so  inappropriately  at  the  desk, 
gazing  so  meaninglessly  into  pigeon-holes,  made  no  reply. 
And  now  Charles  Garrott  was  walking  toward  her,  walking 
as  the  entranced  walk,  fascinated,  staring  with  fixed  eyes 
that  had  forgotten  how  to  wink. 

"  What  're  you  talking  about?  I  don't  know  what  you 
mean!  Why,  what's  happened  —  what's  gone  wrong?" 

Mary  Wing  grew  restless  under  his  questionings;  she  spoke 
with  obvious  effort:  "Nothing's  happened  —  nothing's  gone 
wrong.  I  say,  I  simply  decided  that  I  would  n't  —  take  the 
position,  after  all.  I  decided  I  would  refuse  it.  So  I  was  writing 
to  Dr.  Ames  —  to  explain  .  .  .  That's  all  I  can  say." 

But  the  man  standing  over  her  looked  more  spellbound  than 
ever. 

"Explain! — explain  what?  .  .  .  Why  —  you  can't  put  me  off 
like  this  —  can  you?  "  said  he,  all  his  stiffness  so  shattered  by 
her  thunderbolt,  all  his  struggle  but  for  some  effect  of  poise. 
"You  must  know  —  I'm  tremendously  interested.  And  — 
I  'm  obliged  to  feel  that  something  pretty  serious  has  hap 
pened  to  make  you  — " 

"No!  —  nothing  has  happened  at  all,  I've  said.  I  assure 
you  —  nothing." 

"But  .  .  .  You  can't  imagine  how  absolutely  in  the  dark 
...  Do  you  mean  you  've  found  something  else  you  'd  rather 
do  — here?" 

"  I  suppose  that 's  one  way  of  putting  it  —  yes.  .  .  .  Why,  I 
simply  say  that  when  the  time  came  —  I  was  n't  able  to  do  it, 
that's  all.  .  .  .  No,  I  did  n't  want  to  do  it  —  that  must  have 
been  it.  Of  course,  people  always  do  what  they  really  want 
most." 

292 


Angela's    Business 


"  You  did  n't  want  to  do  what?  .  .  .  You  know,  that's  just 
what  I  don't  quite  understand." 

"But  I've  just  told  you,"  she  protested;  and  there  stopped 
short. 

She  had  overcome  the  brief  weakness  which  had  seemed  to 
seize  her  when,  for  the  first  time,  she  heard  her  intention 
declared  aloud,  the  spoken  word,  it  may  be,  imparting  to  it 
the  last  irrevocable  stroke.  She,  the  competent,  would  not 
be  incompetent  with  her  own  great  affair.  And  now,  as  if  she 
reluctantly  acknowledged  some  right  he  had  to  understand, 
she  seemed  to  force  herself  to  speak  again,  in  a  voice  from 
which  her  self-control  had  pressed  al^tone. 

"I  mean  that,  when  the  time  came,  I  could  n't  pick  up  and 
go  away  —  for  good  —  no  matter  what  was  at  the  other  end. 
I  mean  I  was  n't  willing  to.  I'd  rather  not." 

She  took  a  breath ;  and  then  tone  came  into  her  sentences, 
but  it  was  only  a  sort  of  light  hardness. 

"  I  suppose  it  all  came  down  to  this  —  that  I  was  n't  willing 
to  leave  mother  —  in  the  way  I  should  have  to  leave  her.  I 
didn't  want  to.  It  was  not  possible  .  .  .  And  I'm  afraid 
that's  all  I  can  say." 

"But  of  course  I  understand  you  now,"  said  the  young  man 
instantly,  in  the  strangest  mild  voice. 

"Then,  if  you  will  —  please  me  —  let's  say  no  more  about 
it." 

To  that  stanch  speech  he  made  no  reply:  perhaps  he  did  not 
hear  it.  Winter  dusk  had  crept  quickly  into  the  pretty  sitting- 
room.  The  tall  figure  motionless  by  the  little  desk  grew  per 
ceptibly  dimmer. 

That  understanding  Charles  spoke  of  had  come  upon  him 
by  successive  shocks,  each  violent  in  its  way.  His  had  been  the 
mere  mad  sense  of  a  world  too  suddenly  swung  upside  down, 

293 


Angela's    Business 


of  the  individual  himself  left  standing  brilliantly  on  his 
head.  That  had  been  just  at  first;  and  then  perception  had 
slid  into  him  like  a  lance,  and  his  feet  had  struck  the  solid 
ground  with  a  staggering  jolt.  It  was  as  if,  at  a  word,  all  the 
supporting  fabrications  of  his  mind  had  turned  to  thin  air, 
and  out  he  fell  headlong,  at  last,  upon  the  real  and  the  true. 
And  this  real  and  this  true  was  Mary  Wing,  nothing  else, 
standing  where  she  had  always  stood;  Mary,  his  best  old 
friend,  whom  he  had  given  his  back  to,  belabored  with  harsh 
words,  while  she  struggled  at  the  crossroads  of  her  life  —  to 
this.  Now  contrition,  now  humbleness  had  shaken  the  young 
authority,  a  poignant  conviction  of  his  failure,  in  understand 
ing  and  in  friendship.  And  then  she  spoke  again,  making  it 
all  quite  perfect  with  simple  words  that  he  himself,  in  a  dream, 
might  have  shaped  and  put  into  her  mouth.  /  was  n't  willing 
to  leave  mother.  And  after  that,  it  seemed  that  nothing  about 
himself  could  possibly  matter  in  the  least. 

"You  know,"  he  said,  quite  naturally,  out  of  the  small 
silence,  "I  think  it's  beautiful  that  a  girl  like  you  can  feel  this 
way  —  a  girl  with  your  abilities  —  your  usefulness  and  splen 
did  success  —  and  now  this  magnificent  oppor  — " 

"Don't!  —  please  don't!  I  had  n't  meant  to  speak  of  it  at 
all.  I  —  we  won't  discuss  it,  please." 

She  spoke  hastily,  pushing  back  the  papers  she  had  been 
pretending  to  arrange,  starting  to  rise.  But  that  word  or  that 
movement  seemed  to  galvanize  the  still  Charles  into  the  sud- 
denest  life. 

"Discuss  it !  "  he  cried,  in  a  new  voice.  "Why,  we're  going 
to  have  the  greatest  discussion  you  ever  heard!" 

For  perhaps  the  strangest  part  of  this  destructive  upheaval 
was  that  it  seemed  to  leave  every  idea  he  had  ever  had  about 
this  Career  completely  reversed.  One  word  from  Mary  Wing 

294 


Angela's    Business 


about  not  leaving  her  mother,  and  nothing  seemed  to  matter 
but  that  she,  in  her  fine  recklessness,  should  not  be  allowed  to 
sacrifice  her  triumph  and  her  life. 

"No!  —  please!  It's  settled  now.  And  it  only  makes  — " 

But  her  friend,  the  authority,  had  flung  himself  into  the 
chair  beside  her,  like  an  excited  boy,  and  he  seized  her  wrist 
on  the  desk-leaf  in  an  arresting  grip. 

"No,  it  isn't  settled  till  it's  settled  right!  — don't  you 
know  that?  Is  this  your  letter  to  Ames  here?  Let  me  tear  it 
up  for  you  now!  Refuse  the  appointment!  Why,  Miss  Mary  I 
You  can't  think  of  such  a  thing!  You!  —  a  worker  with  a 
mission  —  and  this  your  great  call!  —  your  big  opportunity 
—  your  duty  !  Yes,  your  — " 

She  interrupted  his  flowing  modernisms  to  say,  quite  pa 
tiently:  "You're  hurting  my  wrist." 

"  Yes,  and  I  'm  going  on  hurting  it  till  I  see  that  letter  torn 
up!  Now,  Miss  Mary!  —  listen  to  me  —  for  once  —  I  beg! 
You  won't  suppose  I  don't  understand  —  now  —  what  made 
you  sit  down  to  do  this,  and  I  —  I  need  n't  say  I  admire  you 
immensely  for  feeling  so.  But  —  don't  you  see  —  if  life's 
hard,  it 's  not  your  doing,  and  if  it 's  hardest  on  mothers,  you 
can't  change  the  conditions  by  a  hair's-breadth,  no  matter 
what  you  do.  .  .  .  Why,  if  you  were  going  to  marry  Donald, 
and  go  off  to  Wyoming,  the  break  here  would  be  just  as  bad, 
but  you'd  never  think  it  wasn't  right  —  you'd  know  that 
these  were  the  terms  and  conditions  of  life.  Oh,  you  know  all 
that  as  well  as  I!  You  know  the  duty  is  n't  from  children  to 
parents  —  no,  I  swear,  it's  from  parents  to  children,  every 
time.  And  your  mother  '11  be  the  first  to  say  so  —  you  know 
that,  too!  You  know,  when  you  tell  her  you're  thinking  of 
doing  this,  she'll  go  down  on  her  knees  to  beg  you  to  take  your 
youth  —  and  your  life  —  and  be  free  — " 

295 


Angela's    Business 


He  was  deflected  by  one  of  Mary's  normal  level  gazes, 
turned  upon  him.  She  said  steadily:  — 

"How  long  have  you  been  feeling  this  way?" 

"Ten  years!  And  then  —  for  about  five  minutes." 

"I  had  understood  somehow  —  I  don't  know  how  exactly 

—  that  you  always  thought  I  should  stay  here." 

The  young  man  felt  a  flush  spreading  upward  toward  his 
hair,  but  would  not  lower  his  eyes. 

"Perhaps  I  did  have  some  such  feeling  —  in  a  sort  of  — 
personal,  illogical  way.  But  if  it 's  the  last  word  I  ever  speak 

—  you've  destroyed  the  last  shred  of  it." 

He  rose  abruptly,  without  intention.  Nothing  in  the  world 
was  clearer  to  him  than  that  he  and  his  reactions  mattered 
little  to  her  now;  yet  the  desire  mounted  in  him  to  explain 
how  it  was  never  the  thing  itself,  but  always  the  feeling  about 
it,  that  had  seemed  so  important  to  him.  However,  the  school 
teacher,  with  a  little  definitive  gesture  of  the  arm  he  had 
released,  spoke  first:  — 

"Well,  never  mind!  Don't  argue  with  me,  please.  It's  as 
over  and  done  with  as  something  last  year  — " 

But  Charles,  upon  his  unimagined  task  of  persuading  Mary 
to  act  as  the  Egoettes  act,  cried  out:  "No!  — no!  Argue!  Why, 
d'  you  think  I  '11  stand  by  and  hold  my  tongue,  while  you  sac 
rifice  the  great  chance  of  your  life,  your  particular  dream  — 
for  a  mere  notion  of  duty!  I  say,  and  I've  always  said,  that 
freedom  —  and  the  right  to  do  your  work  —  belong  to  you,  if 
to  anybody  in  the  world!  You've  — " 

"Do  you  really  suppose  I've  lain  awake  all  these  nights 
without  learning  what  my  own  mind  is?" 

Having  stopped  him  effectually  with  this  dry  thrust,  she 
went  on  in  another  manner,  not  controversial  at  all,  rather  like 
one  speaking  to  herself. 

296 


Angela's    Business 


"And  as  for  my  freedom  —  that 's  not  involved  at  all.  .  .  . 
I  was  thinking  just  now  that  maybe  this  is  just  what  freedom 
—  responsible  freedom  —  really  is  —  means.  It 's  having  the 
ability  and  the  desire  and  the  fair  chance  to  do  a  thing  —  and 
then  not  do  it." 

And  then  Charles  Garrott  knew,  quite  suddenly  and  finally, 
that  this,  indeed,  was  no  talk  in  a  book,  but  the  realest  thing 
in  the  world;  that  this  incredible  had  really  happened:  that 
Mary  Wing,  the  "hard"  Career-Maker,  was  tossing  her 
Career  away.  .  .  . 

He  stood  quite  silenced,  while  she  spoke  her  last  decisive 
word. 

"So  you  see  you  have  a  wrong  idea  of  —  what  I'm  doing, 
altogether.  I  appreciate  your  —  being  so  interested  —  I  value 
it,  you  know  that,"  said  Mary  Wing  in  a  controlled  voice, 
hard  even.  "But  I  can't  leave  you  thinking  that  I'm  simply 
sacrificing  myself  —  to  my  mother,  for  instance.  It  is  n't  that 
way  at  all.  Of  course,  I  'm  no  more  to  mother  than  mother  is 
to  me.  It's  not  a  sacrifice.  .  .  .  Or,  rather  —  I'm  in  the 
position  that  people  are  always  in  —  more  or  less.  Either 
way,  I  Ve  got  to  sacrifice  —  and  this  is  the  way  I  choose.  But 
it's  getting  very  dark.  I  must  light  the  lamps." 

She  rose  as  she  spoke,  and  having  risen,  bent  again,  to  snap 
on,  superfluously,  her  little  desk-light.  And  as  she  so  stood 
and  bent,  the  large  hand  of  Charles  Garrott  reached  out  sud 
denly,  and  began  to  pat  her  shoulder. 

She  seemed  but  a  slip  of  a  girl,  no  more,  that  he,  Charles, 
could  have  tossed  upon  his  shoulder,  and  so  walked  out  upon 
a  journey.  But  here,  in  a  wink,  she  had  shot  up  so  tall  upon 
his  horizon  that  he  himself,  beside  her,  seemed  to  possess  no 
significance  at  all.  She  might  be  right,  she  might  be  wrong: 
but,  to  him,  the  authority,  this  crashing  negation  of  the  Ego 

297 


Angela's    Business 


was  the  flung  banner  of  a  splendid  trustworthiness,  a  fitness 
to  lead  her  own  life,  indeed,  such  as  should  not  be  questioned 
henceforward.  Never  had  this  woman's  independence  of  him 
spoken  out  to  him  with  so  clarion  a  voice  as  now.  And  still, 
over  and  through  her  unemotional  firmness,  the  sense  of  what 
a  giving-up  was  here  swelled  in  him  almost  overwhelmingly. 
It  was  the  brilliant  prize  of  ten  years'  checkered  struggle  that 
his  old  friend  to-day  so  stoically  threw  away.  Here  was  a  re 
fusal  which  would  touch  every  corner  of  her  life  to  its  farthest 
reaches.  .  .  . 

So  Charles  Garrott's  warring  sensations,  his  humility  and  his 
pride  in  her,  had  instinctively  expressed  themselves  in  the 
awkward  mute  gesture  of  his  sympathies. 

By  chance,  it  was  Mary's  more  distant  shoulder  that  his 
novel  impulse  had  prompted  him  to  pat  and  go  on  patting :  so, 
from  the  accident  of  their  positions,  an  eye-witness  might  have 
been  with  difficulty  convinced  that  this  man's  arm  was  not  ac 
tually  about  the  slim  figure  of  his  friend.  But  a  jury,  without 
doubt,  would  have  accepted  the  friend's  attitude,  her  entire 
indifference  to  what  was  going  on,  as  fair  proof  that  this  was 
purely  a  modern  proceeding,  and  no  caress.  To  ask  why  he 
did  this  clearly  did  not  enter  Mary's  head.  Had  she  been  a 
man,  indeed,  or  he  her  father,  she  could  hardly  have  seemed 
more  unaffected  by  Charles  Garrott's  unexampled  minis 
trations. 

With  what  speech  he  meant  to  accompany  and  justify  his 
pat  tings,  Charles  had  not  stopped  to  think.  He  had,  in  fact, 
himself  just  become  conscious  of  them,  when  Mary,  straight 
ening  up,  said  suddenly  in  her  normal  voice:  — 

"There's  the  telephone  ringing.   Excuse  me  a  minute." 

She  gave  him  a  brief  look  in  passing,  which  may  have  been 
intended  as  some  sort  of  courteous  acknowledgment  of  the 

298 


Angela's    Business 


pattings  after  all.  And  then  she  disappeared  into  the  hall, 
putting  an  end  to  talk:  inopportunely  he  felt;  leaving  him  with 
a  vague  sense  of  inartistic  incompletion.  .  .  . 

The  young  man  stood  still  in  the  silent  sitting-room,  in  a 
duskiness  just  punctuated  by  the  small  green  glow  of  the  desk- 
lamp. 

One  of  those  many  minds  of  his,  which  are  at  once  a  writer's 
genius  and  his  curse,  —  that  completely  detached,  cool  over- 
mind  which  never  sleeps,  never  ceases  to  scrutinize  and  ap 
praise,  —  was  quite  conscious  that  Mary  had  held  him  off 
with  a  hand  firmer  than  his  own.  There  was  a  tremendous  lot 
that  he  really  needed  to  say,  it  seemed,  in  sheer  admiration, 
sheer  feeling;  and,  the  truth  was,  she  did  n't  wish  to  have  him 
say  it.  No;  her  strength,  though  so  far  finer  and  more  sensitive 
than  the  strength  of  the  Egoette,  was,  indeed,  not  "soft." 
She  would  not  sentimentalize  even  her  own  suicidal  renouncing. 
As  for  weeping  —  he  himself  had  seemed  rather  nearer  tears 
than  his  iron-hearted  friend.  .  .  . 

But  the  intense  thought  of  the  central  mind,  of  the  net 
Charles,  had  never  wavered  from  its  great  stark  fact,  that 
Mary  Wing  was  going  to  stay  at  home  —  and  be  a  school 
teacher.  .  .  .  And  why  had  he,  who  thought  himself  as 
observant  as  another  authority,  been  staggered  so  by  the 
revelation?  Had  not  he  himself  divined  just  this  subtler  qual 
ity  in  her  long  ago,  when  he  found  and  named  her  as  the  best 
type  of  modern  woman?  ...  But  no,  even  in  "Bondwomen," 
he  had  had  reservations,  it  seemed;  open  doubts  in  the  write- 
ups. 

And  now,  Charles  the  author,  in  his  turn,  abruptly  collided 
with  a  strange  discovery.  He  stood  rigid,  startled.  .  .  .  This 
strength  and  this  surrender,  this  power  to  act,  this  power  to 
feel,  this  freedom  fine  enough  to  accept  the  responsibilities  of 

299 


Angela's    Business 


freedom,  and  to  have  no  part  with  that  hollow  Self-Assertion 
which  traded  round  the  world  in  freedom's  name:  what  was  all 
this  but  the  rounded  half  of  that  true  Line  which,  in  the 
Studio,  had  so  long  eluded  him?  What  had  he  wished  to  say 
about  freedom  so  much  as  just  this?  And  why  need  he  search 
in.  his  fancy  now  for  his  wholly  Admirable  Heroine?  .  .  . 

Mary  Wing  appeared  suddenly  in  the  door.  Unmoving,  the 
young  man  stood  and  gazed  at  her;  and  so  vivid  had  his  imag 
inings  become  that  his  stare  was  touched  with  no  greeting,  no 
recognition  even.  And  then,  even  in  the  dusk,  he  seemed  to 
see  that  she,  his  Heroine  in  the  flesh,  brought  back  a  face  more 
troubled  than  she  had  taken  out,  eyes  colored  with  a  fresh 
anxiety. 

He  spoke  rather  confusedly:  "What  was  it?  Is  anything 
the  matter?" 

"Dr.  Flower's  very  ill,"  she  answered  hurriedly.  "He's 
had  a  stroke,  or  something.  I'm  afraid  it's  very  serious.  I 
must  go  there  at  once." 

All  the  small  fret  of  the  earlier  afternoon,  every  thought  and 
association  with  which  he  had  walked  into  this  room  just  now 
had  receded  so  fast  and  far  that  re-connection,  all  in  a  moment, 
was  not  easy.  Charles,  staring,  seemed  to  say:  "And  who,  if 
you  please,  is  Dr.  Flower?"  And  then  his  mind  replied  with  a 
flashing  picture  of  Angela's  father,  as  he  had  last  seen  him, 
sitting  forlorn  among  his  cigar-stubs :  and  at  once  he  touched 
reality  again. 

"Ah!  I'm  sorry!"  said  he;  and  then:  "You  must  let  me  go 
with  you." 

"  Well  —  thank  you  —  if  you  like." 

And  Mary,  already  moving  away  toward  the  bedrooms, 
added  then,  in  a  colorless  sort  of  way:  — 

"  Who  do  you  suppose  telephoned  me  from  there?  " 

300 


Angela's    Business 


"Who  telephoned?  —  I  don't  know  — " 

She  paused,  half  turned,  looked  back  at  him,  hesitated,  and 
then  spoke  but  a  single  word:  — 

"Donald." 

Brief  though  the  reply  was,  it  was  sufficient  to  plant  Charles 
Garrott's  feet  permanently  upon  the  earth. 

After  an  interval,  with  movements  purely  mechanical,  he 
sought  for  his  watch.  It  was  quarter  past  six.  And  he  under 
stood  everything  then. 


XXI 

CHARLES  thought  that  he  understood  everything 
now.    In  so  far  as  he  built  a  theory  on  the  cold  Argu 
ment  from  Design,  he  understood,  of  course,  nothing 
whatever.    The  truth  was  that  Angela  had  had  other  things 
than  Mr.  Manford  to  think  of  to-day.    That  she  had  gone 
out  in  her  Fordette  at  all  was  only  by  the  merest  chance. 

Trouble  had  come  into  the  little  house  of  the  Flowers.  As 
early  as  one  o'clock,  Dr.  Flower  had  preempted  the  family 
attention.  Coming  in  from  the  Medical  School  half  an  hour 
before  his  regular  time,  he  had  shut  himself  in  his  office,  with 
out  explanation;  and  there  he  sat  all  afternoon,  declining 
dinner  with  a  shake  of  his  head,  and  otherwise  strangely  un 
communicative  and  withdrawn.  Reminded  that  this  was 
Friday,  which  meant  another  lecture  at  half-past  two,  he  only 
said  in  his  puzzling  way:  "  Quite  so.  I  have  no  stomach  for  the 
small  talk  to-day."  Mrs.  Flower,  stealing  now  and  again  to 
the  dark  office,  doing  her  duty  as  wife  and  mother,  returned 
each  time  more  concerned  by  her  husband's  remoteness,  less 
reassured  by  his  grave  statements  that  he  was  not  sick,  in 
stomach  or  elsewhere.  The  two  women  spent  a  long  and 
uneasy  afternoon.  And  at  the  critical  moment  of  it  —  the 
moment  when,  a  mile  to  the  west,  Charles  Garrott  leaned  out 
of  his  third-story  window  —  Angela  sat  anxious  in  her  moth 
er's  bed-room,  discussing  whether  or  not  they  should  take 
the  responsibility  of  calling  in  Dr.  Blakie,  on  the  next  block. 

But  Angela  did  not  think  that  her  father  was  ill,  exactly:  it 
was  more  as  if  his  increasing  queerness  had  reached  a  sort  of 

302 


Angela's    Business 


climax.  And  now,  by  chance,  —  or  was  it  destiny,  in  this  its 
favorite  mask?  —  he  quite  suddenly  got  over  his  mysterious 
attack;  and  the  deepening  worry  lifted  from  her  young  shoul 
ders.  Of  his  own  accord,  her  father  emerged  from  the  office 
and  his  unusual  aloofness  together,  and  came  walking  upstairs 
to  the  bedroom,  speaking  with  his  own  voice  —  speaking, 
indeed,  more  freely  than  was  his  wont.  He  said  at  once  that 
his  headache  was  better  now:  this  being  his  first  reference  to 
his  head  at  all.  As  if  struck  by  his  daughter's  troubled  expres 
sion  as  he  entered,  he  smiled  at  her  and  patted  her  cheek  in 
the  kindliest  way;  and  then,  becoming  thoughtful,  unex 
pectedly  produced  a  two-dollar  bill  from  his  trousers  pocket, 
and  handed  it  to  her  with  some  characteristically  strange 
words  about  her  dowry,  words  which  afterwards  she  could 
never  quite  remember.  There  followed  some  commonplace 
family  talk,  entirely  reassuring. 

And  it  was  only  then,  in  the  certainty  that  everything  was 
all  right  again,  that  Angela  allowed  herself  to  recall  her  own 
affairs  once  more.  It  was  only  then,  with  the  thought  that  her 
recovered  father  very  likely  wished  to  talk  alone  with  her 
mother,  that  she  left  the  bedroom  and  her  two  parents  to 
gether.  At  the  door,  she  mentioned  that  probably  she  would 
go  out  and  get  a  little  air,  before  it  was  time  for  supper. 

The  old  clock  in  the  dining-room  downstairs  had  then  just 
struck  five.  However,  very  little  more  time  could  have  elapsed 
before  the  relieved  young  girl,  hatted  and  coated,  issued  hurry 
ing  from  the  kitchen  door,  toward  the  garage  that  had  once 
been  a  shed.  Yet  another  minute,  and  she  was  rolling  from 
the  alley-mouth. 

To  snatch  Mr.  Manford  from  his  wedding-coach:  was  this 
the  calculation  that  sent  Angela  forth  in  the  fair  eve  of  the 
disquieting  day?  Perhaps  such  a  raid  and  capture  would  not 

303 


Angela's    Business 


have  seemed  quite  a  crime  to  her,  or  to  any  woman  that  ever 
lived.  But  nothing,  of  course,  was  further  from  her  thoughts. 
That  she  might  conceivably  meet  Mr.  Manford  while  she 
took  the  air,  and  even  exchange  a  few  words  with  him,  An 
gela  did,  indeed,  think,  and  hope.  But  this  mild  maidenly 
fancy  was  as  innocent  as  it  was  rightfully  hers.  Good  reason 
she  had  to  know  that  a  little  chat  in  passing,  if  so  be  it  should 
come  about,  would  be  no  less  acceptable  to  Mr.  Manford 
than  to  herself.  Had  he  not  told  her  by  telephone  this  morn 
ing  that  if  he  could  find  so  much  as  a  minute  in  this  rushing 
day,  he  would  spend  it  in  calling  on  her? 

On  the  eleventh  floor  of  the  Bellingham,  Donald  stood  hast 
ily  rolling  his  new  sweater  into  a  brown-paper  parcel.  Now 
into  Washington  Street,  the  little  Fordette  came  curving  and 
snorting  toward  him:  toward  him,  no  doubt,  in  a  spiritual,  as 
well  as  a  geographical  sense.  And  still  the  full  depth  of  the 
young  girl's  design  was  simply  this:  that  her  new  principal 
friend,  going  off  for  a  gay  week-end  among  maidens  more  blest 
by  opportunity  than  she,  might  go  with  a  last  pleasant 
thought  of  her. 

For  Mr.  Manford  was  Angela's  principal  friend  now;  there 
was  no  longer  the  smallest  doubt  of  that.  On  that  day  of 
culminating  results  last  week,  when  the  unusual  line  of  ve 
hicles  had  stood  before  her  door,  the  stalwart  engineer  had 
definitely  moved  up  to  first  place  in  her  thoughts.  Not  only 
had  Mr.  Manford  called  for  an  hour  and  three-quarters  that 
day,  while  Dan  Jenney  cooled  his  heels  in  the  office,  and  then 
went  off  for  a  walk  alone:  but  then  also  he  had  first  shown,  by 
unmistakable  signs,  that  he  was  truly  interested  in  her.  More 
over,  in  the  very  same  moments,  by  a  strange  and  rather  ex 
citing  coincidence,  she  found  herself  becoming  almost  certain 
that  she  was  truly  interested  in  Mr.  Manford.  She  must  have 

304 


Angela's    Business 


been  pretty  certain,  even  then,  for  it  was  that  night  after 
supper,  just  before  she  started  off  to  the  theater  with  Mr. 
Tilletts,  that  she  had  told  Dan  Jenney  in  the  parlor,  sadly  but 
firmly,  that  it  could  never  be,  and  given  him  back  his  ring. 

And  since  then,  the  shy  girlish  surmise  had  been  further 
fed.  One  pleasant  happening  continued  to  lead  to  another. 
When  she  had  asked  Mr.  Manford,  half-jokingly,  to  send  her 
some  picture  post-cards  from  New  York,  for  her  collection, 
it  was  —  again  —  purely  from  the  instinctive  wish  to  know 
that  she  remained  in  her  new  admirer's  thought,  even  when 
he  was  far  away.  But  he  had  sent  her  not  only  stacks  of 
the  loveliest  post-cards,  showing  the  Flatiron  Building,  the 
Statue  of  Liberty,  and  other  well-known  sights,  but  also  the 
most  beautiful  book,  called  "Queens"  —  a  book  of  gorgeous 
pictures  of  American  girls,  all  in  color,  by  one  of  the  most 
famous  artists  in  Chicago.  Of  course,  common  politeness  de 
manded  that  she  should  thank  him  —  for  "  Queens,"  if  not 
for  the  post-cards  —  just  as  soon  as  he  got  back.  And  the 
resultant  talk,  quarter  of  an  hour  over  the  telephone,  had 
been  just  as  satisfying  as  possible.  .  .  . 

Thus  it  was  nothing  less  than  a  complete  realignment  of  the 
coterie  that  had  taken  place,  this  week.  For  if  Mr.  Manford 
had  advanced  rapidly  in  the  young  girl's  thought,  even  more 
rapidly,  of  course,  had  her  old  principal  friend  dropped  back 
ward  out  of  it.  After  the  unattractive  way  he  had  showed  his 
pique  that  day,  Angela  had  thought  about  Mr.  Garrott, 
indeed,  only  long  enough  to  take  a  final  position  about  him. 
That  position  came  simply  to  this,  that  if  he  was  the  sort  of 
person  who  expected  to  take  liberties  with  you  all  the  tune, 
then  he  was  not  the  sort  that  she,  Angela,  cared  to  have  any 
thing  to  do  with.  She  recalled  now  her  early  premonition,  that 
Mr.  Garrott  was  a  man  of  low  ideals.  And  she  was  glad  to 

305 


Angela's    Business 


remember  how  she  had  put  him  in  his  place,  the  night  he  had 
showed  his  real  nature,  and  positively  refused  to  compromise 
her  standards,  simply  to  keep  him  on,  as  so  many  girls  would 
have  done. 

Now,  in  the  tail  of  the  complicated  day,  Angela  thought 
only,  and  with  right,  of  her  engineer.  Rapidly  up  the  Street  of 
the  Rich  she  drove,  and  alert  she  kept  her  eyes.  But,  in  truth, 
the  hope  in  her  heart  had  been  but  a  slim  one;  and  now, 
with  each  passing  block,  she  felt  it  growing  slimmer.  When 
she  got  as  far  as  the  Green  Park,  and  saw  the  time  by  the 
church-clock  there,  it  dwindled  away  blankly  to  nothing:  the 
worry  about  her  father  had  kept  her  in  till  too  late,  just  as  she 
had  thought  all  along.  In  short,  her  mind's  eye  was  picturing 
Mr.  Manford  already  seated  in  his  train,  when  he  suddenly 
made  her  start  and  jump  by  appearing  at  her  elbow. 

The  meeting  was  his  doing  altogether.  The  maid  scanned 
the  sidewalks  as  she  proceeded;  the  man  in  a  closed  convey 
ance  came  skimming  down  the  middle  of  the  highway. 
Nothing  on  earth  could  have  been  easier  than  for  him  to  skim 
on  by  her  unseen,  and  nobody  a  whit  the  wiser.  On  the  con 
trary,  he  must  have  given  the  order  to  stop  with  instanta 
neous  alacrity.  The  very  first  Angela  knew  of  Mr.  Manford's 
nearness  at  all  was  the  sight  of  his  head  sticking  out  the  door 
of  a  great  car,  just  ahead  of  her. 

The  door  was  open;  the  car  was  coming  to  a  standstill; 
Mr.  Manford  was  signaling.  Nimbly,  with  an  inner  leap  of 
happiness,  the  girl  complied  with  his  obvious  wishes. 

The  two  self-propelling  vehicles,  the  big  one  and  the  little, 
stood  side  by  side  in  the  middle  of  Washington  Street,  while 
passing  chauffeurs  detoured  around  them  with  looks  that 
cursed  as  they  went.  Between  the  vehicles,  on  the  asphaltum, 
stood  Mr.  Manford,  dark  head  bared,  speaking  sweet,  hasty 

306 


Angela's    Business 


parting  words:  explaining  what  a  terrible  rush  he  had  been 
in  since  eight  o'clock  this  morning,  saying  (and  looking)  how 
sorry  he  was  not  to  have  been  able  to  call.  Eager  manly  words 
and  self-conscious  manner,  he  was  all  that  a  girl  could  have 
wished.  But  then  he  stopped  himself,  quite  abruptly,  as  if  he 
had  recollected  something,  and  put  out  his  hand  with  the 
solemnest  look.  "Good-byel"  he  said,  and  seemed  to  sigh,  as 
if  he  never  expected  to  see  her  again. 

But  Angela  did  not  take  Mr.  Manford's  hand.  Possibly 
these  two  minutes  should  have  filled  the  round  of  her  expec 
tancy;  possibly  not.  Now  there  rose  in  her  a  graceful  thought 
which  the  sight  of  her  admirer  in  a  conveyance  of  his  own 
had  momentarily  rolled  flat. 

Lifting  her  soft  eyes  to  his,  she  said:  "I  wish  —  is  there  time 
for  me  to  drive  you  to  the  station?  Or  had  you  rather  .  .  .  ?" 

"By  Jove!"  said  he,  staring.    "That  is  an  idea!" 

The  two  normal  young  people  gazed  at  each  other  through 
five  seconds  of  intense  silence.  When  the  man's  gaze  broke, 
it  was  only  to  fling  it  upon  the  watch  he  had  hurriedly  jerked 
out.  And  that  movement  seemed  to  settle  everything.  One 
glance  was  enough  to  satisfy  the  young  bridegroom  that  there 
was  time.  He  so  announced,  and  proceeded  accordingly. 

Thus,  for  the  second  time  in  fifteen  minutes,  Eustace  and  the 
Big  Six  were  sent  empty  about  their  business.  And  Donald, 
dressed  to  "kill"  the  Carson  house-party,  sprang  to  the  wheel 
of  Angela's  Fordette. 

"I'll  hop  her  along,"  cried  he,  laughing  with  the  excitement 
of  the  thing,  as  he  made  the  turnabout,  "  till  she  won't  believe 
It's  for /" 

And  so  he  did,  as  old  Charlie  Garrott,  passed  unnoticed 
on  the  next  corner,  could  have  testified,  and  did.  Ten  full 
blocks  Donald  proceeded  toward  his  train  at  a  wholly  honor- 

307 


Angela's    Business 


able,  indeed  dangerous,  celerity.  And  then  his  single-minded- 
ness  began  imperceptibly  to  yield. 

It  was,  indeed,  touch-and-go  with  Mary  Wing's  male  cousin, 
here  at  the  turning-point  of  his  life.  Had  he  not  forgotten  his 
sweater  —  well,  who  knows?  Now  as  the  station  grew  stead 
ily  nearer,  now  as  the  pretty  and  familiar  voice  spoke  at  his 
side,  one  thing  was  leading  to  another,  and  his  nervous 
fidgeting  increased. 

It  occurred  to  Donald,  not  for  the  first  time,  that  he  was 
being  rushed  about  a  great  deal  here  lately,  with  never  a 
minute  he  could  call  his  own.  Managed  around  all  the  time 
—  that  was  about  the  size  of  it,  here  lately:  railroaded  along 
into  things,  with  no  chance  at  all  to  stop  and  think  quietly 
what  he  wanted  to  do.  ...  Then,  in  a  quiet  stretch  before  the 
turn  at  Ninth  Street,  he  looked  down  at  the  beguiling  soft 
creature  beside  him,  whom  he  had  come  to  know  so  easily, 
so  quickly,  and  so  well.  His  gaze  rested  upon  the  rounded 
girlish  bosom,  rising  and  falling  with  tender  young  life,  at 
the  neck  fair  as  a  lily  where  the  V  of  the  thin  white  waist 
liberally  revealed  it,  at  the  big  eyes  of  a  woman  looking  back 
at  him  so  dark  and  sweet.  And  he  was  surprised  at  the  sen 
sations  the  look  of  these  eyes  now  had  power  to  draw  up 
out  of  him.  How?  Why?  Had  absence  made  the  heart  mys 
teriously  fonder?  Or  was  it  something  in  the  intimacy  of  this 
swift  adventure  together  —  her  sharing  his  dash  for  the  train 
like  some  one  who  belonged  to  him?  .  .  . 

"  I  wish  I  didn't  have  to  run  off  this  way,"  he  muttered, 
restively,  after  a  long  silence. 

"I'll  miss  you,"  said  she,  and  the  dark  eyes  fell. 

He  found  the  simple  reply  oddly  stirring,  arresting,  and 
significant.  He  was  going  to  be  away  only  three  days,  and 
she,  this  dear,  different  fellow-being  whose  gentle  weakness 

308 


Angela's    Business 


already  seemed  to  depend  on  him,  was  going  to  miss  him. 
At  some  risk,  for  they  now  bounced  through  the  traffic  of 
Center  Street,  he  looked  down  at  her  again.  And  once  again 
the  sum  of  all  Donald's  observations  was  this,  that  Angela 
was  a  Woman 

No  jawing  here  about  the  isms  of  the  day,  Browning  — 
Tosti  —  no,  Tolstoy  —  those  chaps ;  no  arguing  back  at  you 
over  things  a  man,  of  course,  knows  most  about.  No;  this  girl 
was  all  Woman.  .  .  . 

"I  suppose,"  said  she,  all  at  once,  "  there  is  n't  a  train  just  a 
little  later  you  could  take?" 

By  singular  chance,  the  thought  of  the  later  train  had  that 
second  knocked  at  Donald's  own  mind.  Marveling  at  the 
coincidence,  he  hesitated,  and  answered  weakly:  — 

"  Well,  there 's  sort  of  a  train  at  7.50  —  a  local.  But  —  this 
is  the  train  they're  expecting  me  by." 

She  made  no  reply.  Glancing  down,  he  got  no  answering 
glance:  she  was  looking,  large-eyed  and  wistful,  into  empty 
space.  Her  silence,  that  look,  seemed  in  some  subtle  way  to  lay 
hold  on  whatever  was  best  in  the  young  man,  compellingly. 
Beyond  his  understanding,  they  seemed  to  envelop  Donald 
with  a  sudden  profound  pressure,  immensely  detaining. 

Now,  over  lower  roofs,  the  station  clock-tower,  two  blocks 
away,  shot  suddenly  up  into  the  fading  sky  before  them. 
They  saw  together  that  it  was  twenty  minutes  past  five. 

"Oh,  hurry!  .  .  .  You've  caught  it,  have  n't  you?" 

The  speech,  for  some  reason,  pressed  more  than  the  silence. 
He  answered,  shortly:  "  Remains  to  be  seen."  Down  the  long 
hill,  the  little  Fordette  raced  and  rattled.  The  young  man's 
hard  breathing  became  noticeable.  And  the  broad  entrance 
of  the  station  was  but  half  a  block  away  when,  with  abrupt 
violence,  he  threw  out  his  clutch  and  jammed  on  his  brake. 

309 


Angela's    Business 


"I've  missed  it!"  said  he,  in  a  voice  that  brooked  no  argu 
ment. 

Tommy's  valuable  gift  had  stopped  with  a  hard  bump. 
Angela  did  not  mind  the  inconvenience.  Her  eyes  were  re 
warding  her  principal  friend.  Her  heart  seemed  to  turn  a  little 
within  her.  Into  her  cheeks  flowed  the  sweet  warm  pink. 

Together,  the  two  normal  young  people  laughed,  suddenly, 
a  little  unsteadily.  Then,  with  gayety  and  some  suppressed 
excitement,  they  sat  discussing  an  important  point,  viz. :  what 
to  do  with  their  two  hours'  holiday,  before  the  later  train? 

It  was  quickly  decided  that  they  should  go  home.  Angela's 
Home  was  the  one  intended;  Donald  it  was  who  decided  the 
point,  as  befitted  the  man.  He  flung  out  a  commanding  hand 
to  notify  whom  it  might  concern  that  he  purposed  to  face 
about,  yet  again.  And  the  faithful  Fordette,  which  had  set 
forth  with  so  frail  a  hope,  turned  and  snof ted  homeward  with 
the  great  victory  of  its  career. 

Angela  sat  with  shining  eyes.  She  would  not  have  been  a 
woman,  she  would  not  have  been  human  but  a  plaster  saint 
on  a  pedestal,  if  her  natural  happiness  had  not  had  the  added 
poignancy  of  a  triumph  among  her  sisters.  Just  how  far  Mr. 
Manford  considered  himself  interested  in  Miss  Carson,  she 
had  never  yet  been  able  to  determine  exactly;  but  that  beau 
tiful  damsel's  position  in  the  scheme  of  things  she,  of  course, 
understood  perfectly.  If  her  own  intuitions  had  lacked,  there 
were  the  plain  hints*Cousin  Mary  had  given  her  only  the  other 
day.  Hence,  since  last  week,  it  was  impossible  to  view  Miss 
Carson  other  than  as  a  rival,  an  enemy  almost,  and  one  pos 
sessing  all  the  odds.  For  Miss  Carson  was  rich  and  prominent, 
with  powerful  family  connections  behind  and  around  her, 
and  every  possible  opportunity  and  advantage:  while  she, 
Angela,  —  as  we  know,  —  had  practically  not  a  single  rich 

310 


Angela's    Business 


relation  on  earth,  and  not  one  soul  to  help  her  but  herself. 
And  still  —  here  was  Mr.  Manford  at  her  side. 

They  stepped  up  on  the  verandah  of  the  home;  and  the  girl 
remembered  the  anxiety  of  the  afternoon.  But,  listening  as 
she  opened  the  front-door,  she  heard  from  above  the  distinct 
murmur  of  her  mother's  voice,  talking  to  her  father,  and  knew 
again,  with  fresh  relief,  that  all  was  well.  Mr.  Manford  hav 
ing  accepted  an  invitation  to  stay  to  supper,  she  disappeared 
briefly  to  confer  with  Luemma  —  bribing  Luemma  with  the 
promise  of  her  old  black  skirt,  in  short,  to  go  out  and  purchase 
certain  extras,  in  honor  of  the  guest.  Returning  again,  she 
found  her  guest  standing  in  the  dark  hall  exactly  where  she 
had  left  him,  motionless,  a  strange  absorbed  look  on  his  mas 
culine  face.  And  as  he  met  her  eyes,  there  in  the  dimness  by 
the  hatstand,  some  of  the  fine  color  seemed  to  ebb  from  his 
cheek. 

They  went  into  the  parlor,  and  sat  down  on  the  dented 
sofa;  and  her  conquest,  still,  was  but  part  of  a  day  that  had 
belonged  to  another.  But  now  it  quickly  became  clear  that 
matters  had  taken  a  headlong  jump,  beyond  all  calculation. 

It  was,  indeed,  as  if  the  man  himself  was  profoundly  re 
acted  upon  by  those  proofs  of  his  own  interest  which  had  so 
stirred  the  maiden.  Unknown  to  any  one,  he  had  missed  his 
train  and  important  engagements  for  nothing  else  than  to  be 
here  wifeh  this  girl:  and  it  was  as  if  the  fact  of  itself  thrust 
her  far  forward  in  his  imagination,  wrapped  her  about  with  a 
new  startling  significance.  Men  did  n't  do  these  things  for 
any  girl  that  came  along.  Or,  possibly,  the  heady  sensations 
were  but  the  cumulative  results  of  a  slower  process,  and  the 
friendly  vehicle  now  resting  at  the  door  had  done  its  decisive 
work  before  to-day.  At  any  rate,  Angela  soon  observed  that 
Mr.  Manford's  behavior  was  quite  embarrassed  and  peculiar; 


Angela's    Business 


and  of  course,  in  the  womanly  way,  his  manifestations  re 
acted  instantly  upon  her.  The  more  peculiarly  interested  Mr. 
Manford  showed  himself  to  be  in  her,  the  more  peculiarly  in 
teresting  she  found  him.  Stranger  still,  the  more  she  found 
him  advancing,  the  more  it  was  in  her  mind  to  retreat.  Or,  no 
—  not  in  her  mind;  it  was,  of  course,  much  deeper  than  that. 
This  reluctance  could  be  nothing  else  than  the  ancient  vir 
ginal  recoil,  somehow  remembered,  strange  latter-day  remi 
niscence  of  old  flights  through  the  woods. 

Instinctively,  Angela  talked  commonplaces.  The  man's  re 
plies  showed  that  he  hardly  listened  to  her.  As  she  recounted 
how  her  father  had  missed  a  lecture  for  the  first  time  to-day, 
he  interrupted  brusquely:  — 

"What's  that  ring  you're  wearing  ?" 

Oh,  that;  oh,  an  old  family  ring,  she  explained,  that  her 
mother  had  given  her  on  a  birthday  once.  He  must  have  seen 
it  a  dozen  of  times.  Mr.  Manford  said,  on  the  contrary,  that  he 
had  never  seen  it  before  in  his  life.  So  —  was  it  the  voluntary 
lingering,  perhaps,  a  backward  look  through  the  leaves,  as  it 
were?  —  Angela  lifted  her  hand  for  him  to  see.  The  hand 
was  tightly  clasped  at  once.  "Where's  that  other  ring  —  the 
one  you  were  going  to  wear  till  —  you  know?"  Oh,  that 
one?  She  had  given  that  one  back  to  the  person  it  belonged  to. 
When?  Oh,  last  week.  Why?  Because  she  knew  then  that 
she  could  never  care  for  him.  "Does  that  mean  you  know 
somebody  you  —  you  care  for  more?"  She  said  that  that 
would  n't  mean  anything  so  very  much;  and  thereupon  made 
an  effort  to  withdraw  her  hand. 

"  There  is  a  time  for  lighting  a  fire;  there  is  a  time  for  leaving 
it  to  burn  of  itself."  Put  otherwise,  Angela  saw  that  Mr.  Man- 
ford  was  n't  even  glancing  at  her  ring.  However,  her  proper 
gesture  to  recover  it  accomplished  no  more  than  her  common- 

312 


Angela's    Business 


places.  For  the  cells  and  tissues  of  the  gentleman,  too,  har 
bored  ancestral  memories,  masculine  recollections  of  agreeable 
old  captures.  And  the  touch  and  cling  of  the  warm  soft  her 
had  seemed  to  set  them  all  to  singing,  drawing  him,  drawing 
him.  So  far  from  recovering  that  hand  of  hers,  in  fine,  the 
fleeing  maiden  abruptly  lost  possession  of  the  other  one. 

Thus  in  the  storied  way,  there  approached  the  second  Oc 
currence  on  a  Sofa.  It  may  have  been  only  the  last  recoil;  it 
may  have  been  that  that  other  occurrence,  fruitless  contact 
with  the  low  ideals  of  man,  had  permanently  injured  the 
womanly  trustfulness.  There  was,  at  least,  a  kind  of  terror 
among  the  mingled  sensations,  as  Angela  beheld  the  second 
event  resistlessly  approaching. 

"Oh,  please!  .  .  .  You  must  n't  .  .  ." 

And  —  so  sardonically  does  life  twine  joy  with  sorrow  in 
its  willful  tangle  —  it  was  as  she  spoke  these  words  that  Mrs. 
Flower,  standing  at  the  head  of  the  dark  stairs,  first  called 
Angela's  name.  However,  that  call  died  unheard.  The  mother's 
voice  was  low,  the  daughter,  for  her  part,  could  be  conscious 
of  nothing  but  that  this  dear  and  imperious  Mr.  Manford 
was  a  very  difficult  person  to  resist.  Perhaps  something  in  her 
had  been  against  resistance  from  the  first;  but  now,  over  his 
inconclusive  endearments,  the  pardonable  inquiry  sighed  from 
her:  — 

"Oh,  why  do  you  do  this?   Tell  me." 

Angela's  mother  stood  two  steps  farther  down:  "Angela! 
.  .  .  Angela!" 

But  Angela,  deep  in  her  great  business  in  the  world,  once 
again  failed  to  hear  the  alarmed  low  summons.  Now  sweet 
nearer  speech  filled  her  woman's  ear.  For  Mr.  Manford,  it  is 
welcome  to  record,  did  not  run,  as  the  cads  run,  from  that 
artless  challenge:  he  met  it  ready,  like  a  soldier  and  a  gentle- 

313 


Angela's    Business 


man.  That  touch  of  lips  softer  than  a  flower  had  taught  this 
young  man,  once  and  for  all,  what  it  was  he  wanted;  huskily 
his  voice  came  from  a  swelling  chest.  "I  love  you!"  said  Miss 
Carson's  anointed,  unmistakably.  And  then,  indeed,  the 
maiden,  unaware  of  all  else,  let  her  conquered  cheek  rest  upon 
her  victor's  breast:  still  and  awed  with  the  discovery  that 
she  loved,  and  in  the  same  breath  thrilled  with  the  knowledge 
that  she  was  a  Successful  Girl. 

For  our  ruling  passions  are  strong  in  death:  more  particu 
larly,  of  course,  when  the  death  in  question  is  not  our  own.  .  .  . 

Yet  her  moment  of  exquisite  peace  was  brief  enough,  poor 
child.  Scarcely  had  the  dearest  words  been  spoken,  scarcely 
had  she  known  her  awe  and  her  thrill,  when  all  was  snatched 
from  her.  That  other  voice  outside,  more  insistent,  struck  sud 
denly  into  her  unsteadied  mind;  too  quickly,  the  surrendered 
cheek  lifted.  There  was  a  swift  upstarting,  the  abrupt  part 
ing  of  lovers:  and  after  that  fear  descending,  precipitate  and 
dark  as  a  cloud,  over  the  new  great  joy. 

The  course  of  the  succeeding  hours  was  never  clear  in  An 
gela's  memory.  There  was  a  rush  of  unfamiliar  and  frightening 
activity.  Donald  was  gone  at  a  run  for  Dr.  Blakie.  She  her 
self  fled  for  Mrs.  Doremus,  on  whose  judgment  her  mother 
much  relied.  Mysteriously,  Mrs.  Finchman  and  poor  Jennie 
appeared,  tipping  up  the  steps.  Then  Mr.  Garrott  stood  sud 
denly  in  the  hall,  with  Cousin  Mary  and  Mrs.  Wing,  all  very 
grave  and  breathless,  they  had  come  so  fast.  Mr.  Garrott 
must  have  left  very  soon;  there  was  nothing  for  him  to  do;  but 
Cousin  Mary,  who  had  once  meant  to  be  a  doctor,  took  charge 
of  everything  from  the  start,  and  was  very  helpful.  She  slept 
that  night  in  Wallie's  room. 

At  ten  o'clock,  Donald  left  her  to  take  Mrs.  Wing  home;  but 
he,  her  new  comforter,  returned  directly,  in  the  sweetest  way, 


Angela's    Business 


to  say  good-night.  Earlier  in  the  evening  Donald  had  dis 
patched  a  telegram  to  Mrs.  Kingsley  at  Hatton,  in  which  he 
said:  "Serious  illness  in  my  family  prevents  coming."  The 
due  excuse  was  strong  enough,  in  all  conscience.  But  the 
matter  had  gone  beyond  illness  now. 

Thus  it  was  that  the  strange  day,  already  memorable  to 
Charles  Garrott,  memorable,  too,  to  Mary  Wing,  turned  past 
all  counting  into  the  unforgettable  day  of  Angela's  life. 
Thus,  into  the  little  house  in  Center  Street,  life  and  death 
came  stepping  side  by  side. 

After  this  day,  there  came  another,  and  another  and  an 
other:  and  still  it  seemed  that  death  overshadowed  life,  and 
joy  was  overwhelmed  in  grief.  The  shadow  of  this  first  final 
parting  seemed  to  close  down  on  the  young  girl's  happiness 
like  a  cover,  and  for  a  space  her  engagement  was  less  real  to 
her  than  the  shut  office  downstairs,  the  empty  seat  at  the 
table. 

But  youth,  after  all,  is  made  for  life,  and  thereby  equipped 
with  a  merciful  resilience.  The  passage  of  time,  mere  use, 
worked  wonders.  And  Angela's  blessing  it  was,  no  doubt, 
that  from  the  beginning  she  had  others  than  herself  to  think 
about,  and  the  need  for  much  activity.  First  and  foremost, 
there  was  Donald,  who  was  with  her  morning,  noon,  and  night, 
whose  first  sight  of  her  in  a  black  dress  had  moved  him 
almost  to  tears.  It  was  not  fair  to  the  man  who  had  won  her 
that  she  should  give  way  to  a  limitless  melancholy.  Beyond 
that,  loomed  the  sudden  colossal  fact  of  the  wedding,  which 
would  have  to  take  place  almost  immediately;  for  her  duty 
now  was  to  her  future  husband,  and  the  demands  of  his  work 
must  overcome  her  girlish  shrinkings  from  such  unwonted 
haste.  And  a  wedding  must  mean  clothes,  at  all  times,  and 


Angela's    Business 


clothes,  even  at  the  plainest  and  simplest,  must  mean  some 
thought  and  some  diversion. 

Insensibly,  death  turned  back  to  life  again.  The  great,  con 
fused  day  of  Angela's  life  was  a  week  old;  it  was  two  weeks  old; 
it  was  three.  And  winter  now  was  fading  from  the  softening 
air.  .  .  . 

They  were  the  quietest  weeks  imaginable.  Except  her 
mother  and  her  fiance,  Angela  saw  no  one  for  days  together, 
not  even  Mary  Wing.  For  Mary,  as  it  happened,  was  sick 
at  this  time  —  her  first  illness  in  five  years,  so  Mrs.  Wing  said. 
She  had  caught  cold,  it  seemed,  in  the  wet  at  the  funeral,  and 
the  cold  had  developed  into  quite  a  serious  attack  of  bron 
chitis,  which  kept  her  in  bed  two  weeks  or  more.  Thus  the 
young  couple,  in  their  mourning,  were  left  completely  to  them 
selves.  In  their  isolation,  in  the  still  little  parlor,  they  were 
planning  at  great  length  about  their  future,  going  over  and 
•over  their  new  common  problems  from  every  possible  angle. 
And  the  more  Angela's  fatherlessness  was  accepted  as  a  per 
manent  fact  in  the  order  of  the  future,  the  clearer  it  became 
that  this  fact  must  color  and  affect  everything  else. 

In  chief,  this  question  of  the  girl's  came  more  and  more  to 
the  front  of  the  loverly  discussions :  How  could  she  go  off  to 
wild  remote  Wyoming,  now  that  her  mother  was  a  widow? 


XXII 

IT  was  March  now,  the  mild  March  of  an  early  spring. 
There  came  new  days,  zephyrous  and  sweet.  All  the 
world  seemed  to  love  a  lover.  But  other  matters  were 
afoot  in  the  world,  too,  necessarily:  afoot  even  in  the  old 
coterie  itself. 

Charles  Garrott,  descending  Miss  Grace's  steps  on  an 
afternoon  that  looked  like  April  and  felt  like  May,  thought 
not  of  young  Romance.  What  with  the  groom's  absorption, 
and  Mary  Wing's  unprecedented  illness,  the  old  principal 
friend  had,  indeed,  heard  little  or  nothing  of  the  happy  pair 
through  these  days.  He  had  accepted  the  event,  long  since, 
once  and  for  all,  with  fatalistic  philosophy;  and  though  the 
nuptials  were  now  but  six  days  distant,  they  were  far  from 
his  mind  in  this  moment,  as,  his  hated  tutor's  stint  done,  he 
turned  his  long  stride  hurriedly  toward  Olive  Street. 

Charles,  as  we  know,  was  not  a  caller.  It  was  true  that  he 
had  hardly  seen  Mary  Wing  since  the  day  when  she,  the  hero 
ine  of  his  write-ups,  had  so  suddenly  indicated  herself  as  his 
larger  heroine  as  well;  true  also  that,  in  the  engrossed  and  very 
fruitful  solitude  of  the  Studio  succeeding,  he  had  thought 
of  her  much,  bookishly  and  otherwise.  But  these  facts  had 
not  changed  the  essential  nature  of  Charles.  Still  he  was  not 
a  caller;  still  when  he  rang  people's  door-bells,  it  was  morally 
certain  that  he  had  definite  matters  to  urge  upon  their  notice. 

And  so  it  was  to-day.  Charles,  in  a  word,  had  conceived  a 
new  plan  for  helping  Mary. 

That  she,  the  admirable,  by  way  of  reward  for  her  smashing 


Angela's    Business 


denial  of  the  Ego,  should  find  herself  fixed  for  life  as  a  gram 
mar-school  teacher,  "  demo  ted"  and  disgraced:  this  state  of 
things  had  naturally  seemed  unendurable  to  Mary's  good 
friend.  That  Mary  did  not  need  his  help,  that  he  recognized 
her  now  as  competent,  in  the  finest  sense,  to  manage  her  own 
affairs  henceforward,  seemed  to  have  little  or  nothing  to  do 
with  the  case.  Hence,  while  she  lay  withdrawn  from  the  battle 
of  life  with  bronchitis,  the  helper  had  been  elaborately  at 
work  on  new  lines:  stalking  School  Board  members  for  Mary, 
in  fine,  with  great  cunning.  But  this  plan,  unluckily,  his 
fourth  and  most  troublesome,  had  lately  collapsed  about  his 
ears.  It  had  cost  the  young  man  much  valued  time,  and  not  a 
little  money  for  lunches;  and  the  net  practical  result  of  it  had 
been  to  leave  him  angrily  conscious  of  "influence,"  mysteri 
ously  pervasive,  and  by  no  means  possessed  by  him.  A  friendly 
disposition  toward  Mary,  personally,  seemed  to  be  everywhere 
joined  to  an  unshakable  conviction  that  she  could  not  hope 
to  get  back  to  the  High  School  before  the  fall,  if  then.  Such 
was  the  fruit  of  five  diplomatic  conferences:  the  sixth  had 
stopped  Charles  short.  Young  Dr.  Hazen,  who  was  almost  as 
much  Mary's  representative  on  the  School  Board  as  Senff 
was  Mysinger's,  informed  him  that  Mary  herself  had  al 
ready  canvassed  over  the  Board  with  him,  Hazen,  and  aban 
doned  all  hope  in  that  quarter. 

What,  indeed,  could  he  do  for  Mary  Wing  that  she  could 
not  do  better  for  herself? 

The  fifth  plan  concerned  Public  Opinion  again,  and  a  new 
use  of  the  gift  he  had.  It  inspired  less  confidence  in  its  author 
than  any  that  had  preceded  it.  And  it  was  to  submit  it,  in 
advance,  for  Mary's  discussion  and  approval,  that  Charles 
now  presented  himself  at  the  Wings'  front  door. 

However,  he  met  with  a  disappointment.    Mary  was  out. 


Angela's    Business 


She  had  gone  to  the  Flowers'  soon  after  luncheon  —  unex 
pectedly,  it  appeared  —  and,  at  half-past  four,  was  not  yet 
back.  That  seemed  more  or  less  surprising.  Mrs.  Wing,  who 
had  answered  his  ring,  looked  somewhat  concerned,  he  thought. 
However,  as  it  was  agreed  that  Mary  could  not  remain  with 
Angela  indefinitely,  the  caller  decided,  after  brief  hesitation, 
—  for  the  Studio  allured  in  these  days  as  never  before,  —  to 
wait  for  her. 

So  he  came  again  into  the  sitting-room,  and  Mrs.  Wing  sat 
to  keep  him  company.  Naturally,  there  was  but  one  subject 
for  their  conversation. 

Charles  liked  Mrs.  Wing.  She  always  began  every  conver 
sation  with  him  by  asking:  "  And  how  did  you  find  your  dear 
mother  on  your  last  visit?"  Mary's  mother  had  never  seen 
his  mother,  and  possibly  never  would,  but  (being  a  frightful 
sentimentalist)  she  assumed  that  all  mothers  are  dear.  It  was 
next  her  habit  to  inquire  whether  Charles  had  written  any 
stories  lately,  and  why  they  never  saw  anything  of  his  in  the 
magazines.  Such  things  tended  to  create  a  bond.  And  recently 
the  tie  had  been  strengthened  by  an  unusually  intimate  talk 
on  the  subject  of  Mary,  whose  surrender  of  her  great  prize 
had,  indeed,  upset  and  distressed  her  mother  even  more  than 
Charles  had  predicted. 

To-day,  again,  Mrs.  Wing  appeared  somewhat  unlike  her 
usual  calm  self.  She  omitted  her  inquiry  about  Charles's 
writing  altogether  (thus  denying  him  his  chance  to  mention  the 
recent  rather  gratifying  acceptance  of  Dionysius,  no  less), 
and  the  nattering  things  she  kept  saying  of  Angela  had,  to  his 
ear,  a  faintly  tentative  ring,  requiring  his  confirmation.  But  his 
first  vague  wonder,  whether  anything  could  have  happened, 
was  soon  lost  in  other  reactions.  Thus,  he  had  to  wince  a 
little  in  agreeing,  once  more,  that  Donald's  future  wife  was  a 


Angela's    Business 


thoroughly  " womanly  girl."  Few  authorities  enjoy  denying 
the  ripe  sum  of  their  own  best  thinking.  But  a  later  remark  of 
Mrs.  Wing's  took  a  much  deeper  twist  in  his  mind. 

"  Really,"  she  said,  slowly  and  dubiously,  following  a 
pause,  "I  have  but  one  fault  to  find  with  Donald's  choice,  and 
that  is  —  well,  frankly,  Angela  seemed  to  care  so  little  for 
Paulie  and  Neddy  Warder.  .  .  .  And  Donald  was  such  a  goose 
over  them,  dear  boy." 

As  he  did  not  see  his  way  clear  to  replying  to  that,  "I  hope 
you're  mistaken,  ma'am,"  Charles  merely  smiled  vaguely, 
and  said  nothing.  But  what  he  thought,  on  the  delicate 
implication,  was  nothing  about  Angela  at  all  —  only  that 
Donald  had  been  rather  less  of  a  goose  over  Paulie  and  Neddy 
than  Mary  Wing  had  been.  .  .  . 

Then  the  sitting-room  clock  ticked  for  a  space,  while  Mrs. 
Wing  communed  with  herself.  And  Charles,  gazing  out  into 
I  the  park,  waiting  for  his  friend,  thought  how  it  was  that  a 
young  woman's  work  —  even  an  extraordinary  young  woman 
like  Mary  —  always  subtly  lacked  just  that  ultimate  touch  of 
grim  seriousness  which  justified  the  " fierce  hackings  away"  of 
a  man.  For,  as  an  abstract  truth,  there  was  positively  no  such 
thing  as  a  Permanent  Spinster:  and  women  who  were  not 
spinsters,  and  normally  desired  Paulies  and  Neddies  of  their 
own,  could  not  possibly  fulfill  their  longings  without  serious 
complications  to  themselves,  then  and  thenceforward.  It  was 
no  human  or  escapable  " tyranny"  that  had  made  Woman,  to 
this  degree,  to  her  glory  or  her  disaster,  forever  the  victim  of 
her  sex:  and,  by  the  same  token,  fixed  the  final  responsibility 
for  the  economic  support  of  the  family  upon  the  shoulders  of 
i  the  predestined  and  uncompromised  provider,  Man.  .  .  . 

Yes,  then  and  thenceforward  .  .  .  Could  you,  for  example, 
imagine  Mary  Wing  —  who  had  had  chances  to  marry  before 

320 


Angela's    Business 


now,  who  might  reasonably  marry  at  any  time  —  could  you 
picture  Mary  packing  off  her  three  little  darlings  to  a  creche 
every  morning,  that  she  might  go  and  grow  her  soul  at  a  desk 
somewhere?  Maybe  so;  but  he  wondered.  .  .  . 

He  was  thinking  whether  he  could  contrive  to  discuss  the 
creche  and  endowment  arguments  in  his  novel  —  for  of 
course  you  could  make  a  story  carry  just  a  certain  amount  of 
"solid  stuff,"  and  only  dreary  prigs  of  readers  would  lie  still 
while  you  tried  to  feed  them  forcibly  with  a  spoon  —  when 
all  at  once  Mrs.  Wing,  near  by,  was  heard  to  strike  her  hands 
together,  with  a  little  ejaculation. 

"Oh,  Mr.  Garrott!  I  do  believe  Mary's  at  the  High  School 
all  the  time!" 

That  made  the  thoughtful  visitor  turn  swiftly  enough. 

"At  the  High  School?" 

"It's  so  stupid  of  me!"  she  explained,  with  some  relief,  it 
seemed.  "I've  just  remembered.  You  know,  she  never  cleared 
her  papers  and  things  out  of  her  office  closet  there,  and  it  got 
on  her  mind  when  she  was  sick.  And  to-day,  when  she  came 
in  from  school,  she  told  me  she  had  arranged  with  Mr.  Ged- 
die  over  the  telephone  —  the  man  who  has  her  office  now  — 
to  go  and  attend  to  it  this  afternoon.  Yes,  that's  it  —  I'm 
sure!" 

"  Oh ! "  said  Charles,  not  a  little  perplexed.  "  And  then,  you 
mean  —  she  decided  to  go  to  the  Flowers'  instead?  " 

"Well,  to  go  there  first  —  I  suppose.  Donald  came  in  just 
as  she  finished  lunch  —  to  talk  with  her  about  something. 
Then,  when  he  had  gone,  Mary  told  me  she  was  going  down  to 
see  Angela.  It  was  all  rather  unexpected  —  and  somehow  the 
High  School  went  out  of  my  mind  completely." 

"But  I  hope  nothing's  happened?"  he  said  quickly. 

"Well  —  I  don't  know  that  there  has." 

321 


Angela's    Business 


Perplexity  passed  at  once  into  the  certainty  that  some 
thing  had  happened.  The  instant  thought  in  the  young 
man's  mind  was:  What's  Angela  done  now?  Having  risen,  he 
gazed  with  direct  inquiry  at  his  elderly  friend.  But  her  eyes 
glanced  away  from  him;  and  she  put  him  off  further  by  re 
peating:  "It  was  stupid  of  me  to  keep  you." 

Mrs.  Wing  added  that  Mary  was  certainly  at  the  High 
School  now.  Charles,  turning  disturbed  away,  remarked  that 
perhaps  he  would  still  be  in  time  to  help  with  the  office  clean 
ing,  and  she  said  that  was  very  kind  of  him. 

"  She  '11  be  glad  to  see  you,  I  know.  Indeed,  she  has  appre 
ciated  all  you ' ve  done  for  her  —  those  beautiful  articles,  for 
example  —  more  than  you  quite  realize,  perhaps." 

But  the  young  man  shook  his  head,  and  said  with  a  kind 
of  bitterness:  "I've  never  done  anything  for  her  in  my  life." 

And  then,  as  he  took  the  lady's  hand  to  say  good-bye,  he 
asked  abruptly :  "  But  why  should  n't  I  know  what 's  happened, 
Mrs.  Wing?" 

"Oh,"  said  Mary's  mother,  and  hesitated. 

"Yes,  why  should  n't  you?"  said  she,  and  hesitated  again. 

"Well,"  she  began  again  slowly,  "it's  nothing  so  serious,, 
as  I  said,  —  just  a  fresh  disappointment  for  Mary,  —  that  is 
really  all  it  amounts  to  with  me.  Very  likely  Donald  has  inti 
mated  to  you  that  he  was  not  going  to  Wyoming?  " 

The  caller  stared  at  her  dumbfounded. 

"Not  going  to  Wyoming!   Why!  —  why  not?" 

"Well,  he  feels,  in  his  new  circumstances,"  said  Mrs.  Wing., 
uneasily,  "that  it  would  be  more  suitable  to  accept  the  posi 
tion  in  New  York.  But  —  I  really  had  little  opportunity  to 
discuss  it  with  Mary.  She  seemed  —  to  be  frank  —  much 
disturbed,  she  had  so  set  her  heart  on  this  work  in  the 
West—" 

322 


Angela's    Business 


"More  suitable!  .  .  .  How?" 

"Well,  for  one  thing  —  it  doesn't  seem  fair  to  separate 
Angela  so  far  from  her  mother,  as  would  have  to  be  the  case 
in  Wyoming." 

But  into  Charles's  mind  there  had  suddenly  popped  back  a 
stray  remark  let  fall  by  Donald,  in  the  only  talk  he  had 
had  with  him  for  weeks:  "I  tell  you,  Charlie,  it's  pretty  rough 
on  a  girl  to  be  dragged  off  to  live  in  a  shack  nine  miles  from 
nowhere!"  A  mere  passing  observation,  that  he  had  paid  no 
attention  to  at  the  time  —  but  was  that  it?  Was  that  the 
reason  why  another  of  Mary  Wing's  most  cherished  plans 
must  suddenly  cave  in? 

He  stood  utterly  dismayed. 

"So  Mrs.  Flower,"  he  asked,  with  some  want  of  composure, 
"is  going  to  live  with  them  in  New  York?" 

"Oh,  no,  —  not  for  the  present,  I  believe.  She  feels,  and  so 
do  I,  that  young  couples  should  be  left  to  themselves  to  make 
their  start.  But  they  will  be  so  near  that  they  can  visit 
back  and  forth  —  which  would  be  impossible  if  Donald  — " 

"But  Mrs.  Flower  can't  live  here  by  herself?" 

"Well,  no,"  said  Mrs.  Wing,  and  fussed  with  books  on  the 
table.  "That  has  been  the  great  problem,  of  course.  Dr. 
Flower's  death  has  complicated  the  situation  sadly.  I  believe 
the  present  plan  is  for  Wallace  —  the  boy,  you  know  —  to 
come  back  and  live  with  her  —  just  for  the  next  few  months, 
while  Donald  and  Angela  are  finding  themselves." 

Charles  stood  without  a  word.  But  perhaps  his  look  be 
trayed  what  he  felt,  for  Mrs.  Wing  threw  out  her  hands  with 
a  helpless  gesture,  and  cried:  "Well,  he  is  the  man  of  the 
family  now!" 

"However,"  she  added,  turning  away,  "perhaps  Mary  will 
be  able  to  hit  upon  some  other  arrangement.  That  is  what 

323 


Angela's    Business 


she  went  there  for  —  to  talk  the  whole  situation  over  with 
Angela." 

But  Charles,  who  had  always  thought  of  Angela  as  "soft" 
and  Mary  as  "hard,"  seemed  somehow  quite  certain  that  that 
talk  had  accomplished  nothing.  With  brief  speech,  he  moved 
toward  the  door.  Doubtless  struck  with  the  fixed  gravity  of 
his  look,  Mary's  mother,  who  had  been  an  old-fashioned  girl 
herself  once,  said  with  an  effort,  and  yet  firmly  too :  — 

"It  is  life  itself  that  is  hard.  Marriage  means  —  readjust 
ment.  That  is  the  only  comment  to  make." 

It  was  precisely  the  point  on  wrhich  the  silent  young  man 
did  not  agree  with  her.  To  him,  as  to  her,  all  the  sharp  force  of 
this  tidings  was,  indeed,  in  Mary's  new  overthrow.  And  yet 
for  the  moment  there  seemed  to  be  room  in  him  for  nothing 
else  but  comments  on  the  vast  void  in  Mary's  so  different 
cousin. 

/  Angela  was  wanting  in  the  responsible  qualities  of  a  full- 
grown  human  being.  Her  fatal  lack  was  in  human  worth.  It 
was  the  sum  of  all  he  had  thought  about  her  since  the  day 
he  had  called  upon  her  poor  father.  It  was  the  cap  and  climax 
of  all  he  meant  to  say  about  her  in  his  New  Novel. 

So  Charles  took  his  leave  with  an  abstracted  face. 

In  the  drawer  of  the  Studio  table,  there  was  growing  now, 
night  by  night,  a  fresh  stack  of  manuscript,  steady  and  firm 
upon  a  new  Line.  Mary  Wing  had  straightened  out  this  Line 
j  .for  Charles:  Mary  who  had  taught  him  once  and  for  all  that 
a  woman  could  be  finely  independent,  and  still  uphold  the 
interdependence  which  held  the  world  together.  Yet  Mary,  the 
admirable,  was  after  all  but  his  "contrast"  and  his  foil:  it  was 
for  the  peculiarities  of  her  opposite  that  he  had  finally  whetted 
his  pencil.  And,  in  the  intense  and  retrospective  thinking 
which  went  along  with  the  best  writing  he  had  ever  yet  done, 

324 


Angela's    Business 


the  young  man  considered  that  he  had  got  to  the  bottom  of 
Angela's  case,  and  her  sisters',  quite  thoroughly  explored  the 
souls  of  the  Waiting  Women  of  Romance. 

But  this  news  of  her,  these  final  touches  as  to  the  Nice 
Girl's  brother  and  her  future  husband,  seemed  to  fling  at 
him,  as  it  were,  a  last  conclusive  chapter  for  his  "Notes  on 
Women."  That  marriage  meant  readjustments  he,  the  au 
thority,  doubtless  understood  as  well  as  another.  That  this 
marriage  might  make  it  necessary  for  Wallie  Flower  to  be  re 
adjusted  out  of  his  education:  even  that  was  allowed  as  con 
ceivable.  But  that  the  very  first  act  of  Angela's  new  life  should 
be  to  influence  her  husband  in  the  direction  of  his  weakness, 
and,  as  it  seemed,  of  her  own  good  comfort  —  what  was  this, 
indeed,  but  a  brilliant  certification  of  all  the  grounds  of  his 
own  attack?  .  .  . 

The  author's  face,  the  author's  swift  feet,  were  set  toward 
the  High  School.  His  errand  —  now  —  was  to  cheer  up  Mary 
Wing.  "  Make  her  look  on  the  bright  side  " :  so  her  mother  had 
urged  at  parting.  That  necessity  remained  as  a  soreness  and 
dull  anger  through  all  the  young  man's  consciousness.  And 
yet,  in  nearly  a  mile's  walk,  he  hardly  thought  of  Mary  once. 

He  was  surveying,  as  if  from  a  new  peak,  the  unhappy  situa 
tion  of  Home-Makers  with  their  Homes  yet  to  seek:  the  con 
siderable  army  of  the  involuntary  spinsters  of  leisure.  And 
more  than  ever  now,  perhaps,  he  saw  these  sisters  as  a  Type, 
pathetically  marked:  the  innocent  creatures,  the  helpless 
victims,  of  a  dying  ideal  of  themselves. 

Here  was  poor  little  Angela,  his  Novel's  case  in  point. 
She  was  born  a  human  being,  she  was  born  a  being  with 
sex.  And  in  twenty-six  years'  contact  with  the  rich  and  hu 
man  world,  she  had  gathered  nothing  to  her  sum  beyond  what 
tended  to  enhance  her  sex's  attraction.  So  selecting,  she  had 

325 


Angela's    Business 


permanently  lost  the  fullness  of  her  double  birthright:  all  in 
nice,  unconscious  and  inevitable  response  to  an  environment 
which  continually  assured  her  that  being  a  woman  was 
enough. 

If  life  had  been  real  and  bright  and  turbulent  around  her, 
and  she  sat  within  and  polished  her  pink  nails,  it  was  because 
she  was  a  woman.  If  she  was  given  no  education  beyond  the 
demands  of  provincial  parlor-talk,  no  training  for  her  hands, 
no  occupation  for  her  head,  if  no  one  ever  thought  of  her  as 
a  full-statured  being  who  must  pay  her  way  in  substantial 
coin;  this,  again,  was  because  she  was  a  woman,  and  a  woman 
(if  any  one  bothered  with  argument  at  all)  some  day  might  — 
or  might  not  —  be  the  mother  of  children.  Surely  it  had  not 
been  Angela's  fault  if  she  was  early  apprised,  though  through  a 
sweet  mist,  that  she  had  but  one  faculty  of  any  value  in  the 
world's  market;  not  her  fault  if,  amid  general  approval,  she 
innocently  spent  her  youth  and  idleness  in  tricking  out  her 
value,  and  bringing  it  steadily  to  the  attention  of  the  only 
beings  who  could  have  a  use  for  it.  Least  of  all  was  it  her  fault 
if  her  peculiar  business,  and  her  odd  specialized  training,  were 
bounded,  not  by  marriage,  but  only  by  a  wedding-day.  For 
the  final  unnaturalness,  the  crowning  wrong  in  her  situation 
was  exactly  this:  that,  being  told  that  she  must  be  a  wife  or 
nothing,  she  was  coincidently  told  that  being  a  wife  was  a 
matter  which  a  nice  girl  did  well  to  know  nothing  about.  .  .  . 

The  author,  sharpening  his  phrases,  walked  in  angry  ab 
straction.  He  passed  old  acquaintances  as  if  he  had  never  seen 
them  before.  ...  \ 

Oh,  it  was  true  (he  conceded),  a  thousand  times  true,  that 
many  women  of  this  crude  bringing-up  did  develop,  when  their 
time  came,  a  splendid  competence  over  all  their  special  field. 
But  it  was  a  little  too  much  to  assume  that  every  creature  in 

326 


Angela's    Business 


the  female  form  could  be  counted  on  to  perform  such  a  feat  of 
pure  character.  And  Romance,  which  gallantly  or  indifferently 
made  these  exact  assumptions,  defending  and  cherishing  the 
queer  but  comfortable  orientalization  with  the  cloak  of  false 
"womanliness,"  scarcely  pretended  to  believe  its  own  agreeable 
fictions. 

Here  was  Angela  again,  his  little  case  in  point.  Angela  was 
reasonably  good-looking,  adopted  a  flattering  attitude  toward 
eligible  young  men,  knew  her  place,  and  kept  no  opinions 
on  matters  of  interest  to  her  betters;  hence  she  was  called  a 
"womanly"  woman.  Being  womanly  implied  the  possession 
of  certain  home-making  virtues,  present  and  to  come;  hence 
it  was  assumed,  and  she  inevitably  and  naively  assumed,  that 
she  possessed  these  virtues.  Odd  as  these  deductions  sounded, 
he  himself,  he  could  not  deny,  had  swallowed  them  once,  — 
that  night  at  the  Redmantle  Club, — romantically  accepting 
the  appearance  for  the  reality,  willfully  investing  the  humdrum 
commonplace  with  the  full  beauties  of  the  ideal.  But  for  him, 
at  least,  all  obstinate  optimisms  concerning  La  Femme  had 
exploded  with  a  bang  in  a  party-call.  You  did  not  gather 
figs  of  thistles.  And  now  it  was  no  longer  conceivable  to  him 
that  she  who  in  quarter  of  a  century  had  developed  no  human 
interests,  tastes,  resources  at  all,  who  seemed  to  lack  even  an 
average  interest  in  Paulie  and  Neddy  Warder,  should  all  at 
once  blossom  marvelously  into  the  responsible  and  "justified" 
matron.  No,  for  him,  Angela  at  forty,  having  "let  herself  go" 
now  that  nothing  more  was  expected  of  her,  sat  forever  in 
a  room  that  she  had  not  swept,  plaintively  reminding  a 
fatigued  Donald  of  the  priceless  gift  of  her  Self. 

And  Donald,  though  his  interest  in  exploring  the  creature 
once  so  elaborately  mysteried  was  long  since  utterly  exhausted, 
would  probably  take  that  argument  amiss  no  more  than 

327 


Angela's    Business 


Dr.  Flower  had  done.  Romantic  males,  with  their  poor 
opinion  of  the  worth  of  a  woman,  might  hope  for  true  do 
mesticity,  true  maternity:  but  in  their  hearts  they  had  thought 
all  along,  with  a  wink,  that  "possession"  was  enough.  It  was 
"what  a  woman  was  for." 

But  in  that  they  were  mistaken.  Possession  was  not  enough. 
Being  a  female  was  not  enough.  Great  heavens!  —  thought 
Charles  Garrott,  and  muttered  as  he  strode.  .  .  .  What  a 
shame,  what  a  staggering  waste  of  rich  human  potentiality, 
to  classify  and  file  away  one  half  the  world  as  only  "marital 
rights!" 

Was  n't  it  about  time  to  stop  all  this?  Was  n't  it  time  for 
modern  writers  to  pull  away  the  rosy  veils  and  let  the  Angelas 
meet  themselves  —  while  they  could  still  do  something  about 
it?  Did  n't  it  lay  up  needless  future  misery  to  go  on  deceiving 
helpless  women  into  putting  a  preposterous  overvaluation 
upon  the  mere  possession  of  their  sex?  Lastly,  and  above  all, 
was  n't  it  a  colossal  libel  on  all  womanhood  to  accept  the  strut 
and  mannerism  born  of  this  deception  as  the  true  essentials  of 
' '  womanliness ' '  ? 

Womanly  /  .  .  .  Why,  womanliness  was  a  prime  human  qual 
ity,  integrally  necessary  to  the  work  of  the  world  —  a  great 
positive  quality,  not  a  little  passive  one,  productive,  not  sterile, 
of  the  spirit,  not  of  the  body.  Womanliness  was  the  mother 
and  guardian  of  great  social  virtues:  of  a  finer  and  deeper 
emotion,  of  more  sensitive  perceptions,  of  a  subtler  intuition 
of  the  sources  of  life,  of  an  all-mothering  sympathy,  a  more 
embracing  tenderness.  Womanliness  had  no  more  to  do  with 
the  light  bright  plumage  of  the  mating-season  than  a  waxed 
mustache  had  to  do  with  being  a  soldier. 

There  was  a  time,  he  understood  well,  when  the  fact  of 
womanhood  had  implied  substantialities:  when  being  a  wife 

328 


Angela's    Business 


meant  also  being  a  domestic  factory  superintendent,  not  to 
mention  being  a  continuous  mother.  That  time  was  gone  for 
ever.  You  might  argue  for  the  passing,  you  might  argue 
against  it:  meanwhile  it  had  happened.  Inexorable  economics 
had  dried  the  heart  from  the  old  tradition;  and  in  the  sudden 
vacuum  thus  created  there  moved  and  thrived  anomalous 
little  creatures  who  never  knew  that  they  had  lost  all  touch 
with  reality.  Untroubled  by  a  rumor  of  change,  Angela  held 
contentedly  to  the  remnant,  a  low  ideal  of  herself.  But  it  was 
not  so  with  her  finer  sisters.  For  the  passing  of  the  old  woman 
liness  of  four  walls  and  dependence  had  flung  a  window  wide 
to  a  nobler  prospect  and  a  vaster  horizon.  And  already  the 
woman  of  to-morrow  was  rising  in  her  lusty  strength  to  prove 
her  fundamental  racial  virtue,  her  womanliness,  upon  nothing 
less  than  the  world. 

Well,  had  n't  he  told  Mary  long  ago  that  the  object  of  all 
this  was  only  to  make  women  more  like  themselves?  In  that, 
he  would  stake  his  life,  he  had  been  exactly  right. 

A  concrete  High  School  smote  across  the  vision  of  the  seer, 
and  the  cloud-stepper's  feet  trod  but  the  hard  sidewalk  again. 

Groping  for  truth  upon  his  favorite  subject,  he  had  been 
briefly  lost  to  the  issues  of  the  practical:  he  had  a  power  of  con 
centration,  as  he  would  have  been  the  first  to  admit.  But  the 
flight  of  his  rhetoric  was,  after  all,  only  an  incident  of  his  in 
dignation  and  distress;  which  sentiments,  he  knew  all  the  time, 
yet  had  to  be  faced  on  their  own  account.  And  now,  as  he 
rounded  his  last  corner,  and  his  destination  rose  abruptly 
before  him,  Charles  recalled  for  what  he  had  been  walking  so 
fast  and  far. 

Or,  no  ...  What  was  he  coming  for  exactly? 

It  was  all  very  fine  and  easy,  as  a  writer,  to  polish  up  de- 

329 


Angela's    Business 


molishing  phrases  for  poor  little  Angela.  But  what  did  he,  as  a 
man  and  a  friend,  have  to  do  for  Mary  Wing? 

The  helper  crossed  the  street  in  the  lingering  vernal  sun 
shine.  Here  was  the  great  building  where  Mary  had  once 
held  an  important  place,  where  she  came  to-day,  by  special 
permission  only,  to  remove  the  last  traces  of  that  association. 
Now  that  plan  with  which  he  had  set  out  to-day  looked 
back  at  the  young  man  with  rather  a  small  face,  and  wry. 
He  had  never  thought  much  of  the  plan:  only  to  persuade 
Mary  to  let  him  make  public  the  facts  about  her  rejected 
honor  from  the  Education  League  —  legitimate  news  for  the 
papers,  fine  peg  for  a  new  publicity  campaign,  etc.  But  all  at 
once  he  knew  that  he  was  n't  even  going  to  mention  this  to 
Mary  now.  With  what  words,  then,  did  he  rush  to  her  in  her 
fresh  disaster?  Doubtless  to  say,  "I'm  awfully  sorry."  A 
stirring  exploit.  Had  n't  she  shown  him  on  that  other  day 
that  she,  the  strong,  had  no  desire  for  his  fruitless  sympa 
thies? 

The  truth  was,  and  he  had  known  it  from  the  beginning,  he 
rather  shrank  from  seeing  Mary  at  all  now,  in  the  stress  of  this 
final  defeat.  Final,  yes:  for  while  Angela  was  attaining  suc 
cess  to  the  full  limit  of  her  small  conceptions,  every  aspiration 
that  Mary  had  cherished,  literally,  had  one  by  one  gone 
down.  And  if  this  last  was  not  the  worst,  perhaps,  neither 
was  it  the  easiest  to  bear.  No,  if  anything  on  earth  was 
calculated  to  harden  and  embitter  a  woman  who  could  not 
easily  yield,  surely  it  must  be  her  own  so  easy  overthrow  by 
pink  cheeks  and  soft,  empty  eyes. 

And  these  white-stone  steps  Charles  now  ascended  had  for 
him  a  reminiscent  power,  by  no  means  comforting.  The  last 
time  he  had  trod  these  steps,  he  had  sworn,  in  anger,  that  he, 
single-handed,  would  force  the  School  Board  to  bring  Mary 

330 


Angela's    Business 


Wing  back  here,  without  delay.  Mary  would  have  a  right  to 
smile,  if  she  ever  heard  of  that.  She  had  been  thrown  out  of 
this  building  only  because  she  was  a  woman:  under  all  the 
argument,  that  was  positively  the  reason.  And  now  three 
months  had  passed,  and  he,  her  helper,  came  to  say,  "  Well, 
I'm  very  sorry.  .  .  ." 

Charles  pushed  through  the  tall  bronze  doors  of  the  High 
School,  where  he  had  seen  Miss  Trevenna  one  day,  strode 
long-faced  into  the  dim  spaces  of  the  entrance  hall.  It  was 
five  o'clock:  the  whole  building  seemed  silent  and  empty.  A 
rare  sense  of  impotence  within  him,  troubled  also  by  a  secret 
shrinking,  the  young  man  went  stalking  across  the  corridor 
toward  the  stairways.  But  just  here  he  encountered  a  brief 
diversion. 

A  glazed  door  at  his  left,  at  which  he  happened  to  be  look 
ing,  came  suddenly  open.  The  door  was  marked,  in  neat  gold 
letters,  PRINCIPAL'S  OFFICE.  And  reasonably  enough,  the 
jaunty  figure  that  came  stepping  out  proved  to  be  none 
other  than  the  principal  himself. 

Always  a  hard  but  uncomplaining  worker,  Mr.  Mysinger 
was  evidently  just  leaving  for  the  day.  Light  overcoat  on 
his  arm,  stick  and  gloves  in  his  hand,  he  whistled  blithely  to 
himself,  to  the  tune  of  labor  done.  But  at  the  sight  of  Charles 
Garrott  here  on  his  domain,  he  checked  his  gay  air,  stood 
still  in  his  official  door. 

Over  half  the  corridor,  the  two  men  gazed  at  each  other. 
And  Mr.  Mysinger's  specious  face,  after  the  first  surprised 
stare,  assumed  the  smile  of  amity  and  pleasure. 

"Ah,  Garrott!   Well  met!" 

Charles  had  halted,  too,  without  premeditation.  The  chance 
meeting  here  was  natural  enough.  All  that  gave  it  the  force  of 
coincidence  was  that  he  had  in  that  instant  been  thinking, 


Angela's    Business 


not  for  the  first  time,  of  Mary  Wing's  old  saying  of  this  man; 
"If  he  let  either  Board  know  that  he  wanted  me  back,  it  would 
be  done  to-morrow.  ..." 

"I  've  wanted  to  see  you  for  some  time,"  said  Mr.  Mysinger, 
smiling  and  easy — "  about  a  certain  matter  of  common 
interest — " 

On  the  great  stairway  the  sound  of  descending  feet  was 
heard,  those  of  a  belated  teacher,  doubtless.  But  neither 
man  looked  to  see.  And  within  the  sedentary  Charles  there 
was  slowly  spreading  a  vast  iciness,  akin  to  a  bodily  nausea. 

"Can't  you  step  into  the  office  half  a  minute?" 

"Certainly." 

Mary's  former  principal  stood  aside  from  his  door,  bowing, 
with  elaborate  welcome.  Charles,  advancing,  passed  through 
it,  passed  through  the  anteroom,  stepped  silent  into  an  office 
large  as  a  magnate's.  Here  he  stood,  just  inside  the  door. 
Mysinger,  following  with  his  faint  swagger,  went  by  him 
toward  his  handsome  flat  desk. 

"Have  a  cigar?" 

"Thanks,  no." 

The  good-looking  principal  leaned  against  his  desk,  facing 
his  visitor  with  the  same  air  of  too  good-humored  assurance. 

"  Garrott,  let 's  be  frank,"  said  he.  "  You  feel  that  I  am  hos 
tile  to  one  of  your  friends,  and  stand  in  the  way  of  her  ad 
vancement  in  the  schools.  You  are  really  mistaken  in  that. 
So  far  as  my  personal  opinions  might  carry  weight,  I  am 
anxious  for  her  —  for  all  the  teachers  —  to  go  forward  just 
as  fast  as  their  abilities  would  justify.  But  as  you  know, 
Garrott,  the  Board  and  the  Superintendent  settle  all  these 
matters,  and  I  myself  am  only  one  of  the  teachers  under 
their  direction." 

He  paused  encouragingly.  But  the  young  man  at  the  door 

332 


Angela's    Business 


only  continued  to  look  at  him  with  the  same  lidless  fixed 
ness. 

"  At  the  same  time,"  said  the  principal,  a  rather  more  reso 
lute  note  tingeing  his  voice,  "you  appreciate  as  well  as  I  that 
teachers  can't  be  picked  up  and  moved  about  like  chessmen. 
We  must  have  some  —  permanence  —  some  constancy  —  to 
insure  efficiency.  And  frankly,  my  personal  judgment  — 
after  fifteen  years'  experience,  and  considering  the  brilliant 
work  of  Johnson  Geddie  —  is  that  you  could  hardly  hope  to 
see  your  friend  promoted  —  well,  immediately." 

"So  you  would  advise  — ?" 

Mysinger's  eyelid  seemed  to  flutter  a  little:  he  really  did 
have  a  purpose,  it  seemed. 

"I  am  told  —  ahem!  —  that  your  friend  has  recently  re 
ceived  a  most  flattering  offer  —  from  elsewhere?" 

How  had  he  known  this?    "Well?" 

"Well,  the  party  in  question,"  said  he,  with  his  set  smile, 
"seems  to  have  a  certain  prejudice  against  me.  She  refuses 
to  speak  to  me,  in  fact,  —  why,  I  cannot  imagine.  All  the 
same,  I  am,  and  always  have  been,  her  sincere  well-wisher. 
And  after  earnest  thought,  I  honestly  feel  sure  that  her 
friends  would  make  no  mistake  if  they  urged  her  not  to  let 
slip  this  —  ahem  —  well-deserved  promotion.  I  thought," 
he  added,  his  gaze  a  threat  now,  "I'd  better  bring  the  point 
to  your  attention." 

Charles's  fixed  eyes  did  not  waver.  But  before  them  there 
unrolled  a  thin  gray  mist,  briefly  shutting  the  principal  from 
his  sight.  The  mist  queerly  turned  red,  and  became  shot  with 
fiery  sparks.  Then  all  cleared;  and,  behind  him,  the  young 
man's  hand  felt  for,  and  touched,  the  open  door.  Gently, 
moving  only  his  arm,  he  shut  it.  And  it  seemed  to  him  that 
he  must  be  turning  white  inside. 

333 


Angela's    Business 


"You,"  said  he,  "are  more  used  to  insulting  women  than  I 
am." 

Mysinger  flung  up  a  deprecating  hand.  "Tut,  tut,  my  dear 
sir!  Talk  of  that  sort  does  no  good  whatever,  I  assure  you. 
You  would  do  well  to  look  at  the  matter  in  a  sensible  way,  and 
believe  that  I  speak  —  Here!  What' re  you  doing  there?" 

The  principal  had  suddenly  heard  a  strange  sound:  the 
click  of  his  own  key  in  his  own  lock,  in  fine.  At  the  same  time, 
his  visitor  was  observed  to  be  regarding  him  with  a  new  and 
peculiar  intentness,  arresting  and  significant.  And  his  only 
reply  to  his  host's  indignant  inquiry  was  to  drop  the  key  in 
question  in  his  coat-pocket. 

Now  Mary's  old  conqueror,  and  his  own,  had  straightened 
from  that  lounging  swagger.  His  voice  rang  more  angrily: 
"You — !  What  do  you  think  you're  up  to,  anyway — ?" 

"I  think  I'm  going  to  beat  you  to  a  pulp,"  said  the  author, 
—  "you  puppy  I" 

And  he  started  forward  with  a  kind  of  bound,  like  one 
who  goes  to  fill,  at  last,  a  long-felt  need. 


XXIII 

MARY  WING  was  considered  a  reliable  person. 
When  she  announced  that  she  would  clean  out  an 
office  closet  on  a  certain  day,  you  could  make  your 
plans  on  the  thing 's  being  done.  And  to-day  —  if  her  usual 
principles  might  have  weakened  a  little  —  Mary  was  further 
bound  by  the  definite  engagement  she  had  made.  As  Charles 
had  reflected,  a  demoted  grammar-school  teacher  could  not 
walk  in  and  out  of  a  principal's  office  like  one  who  had  some 
rights  there. 

Mary  had  not  remained  at  the  Flowers'  interminably, 
after  all.  She  had  entered  the  High  School  before  Charles 
Garrott  had  arrived  at  Olive  Street,  and  had  been  upstairs 
for  half  an  hour,  when  Charles,  following  on  to  help  her,  strode 
through  the  great  bronze  doors.  Nevertheless,  she  was  a  full 
hour  behind  the  time  mentioned  to  Mr.  Johnson  Geddie  over 
the  telephone,  and  this  increased  her  hope  that  her  only  too 
obliging  successor  would  not  be  found  waiting  for  her.  How 
ever,  Mr.  Geddie  was  found  waiting  for  her;  very  much  so, 
in  fact.  Nothing  could  have  exceeded  the  exuberance  of  his 
courtesy,  and  nothing  could  have  been  less  welcome. 

The  new  assistant  principal  was  a  plump,  white  person,  in 
whose  face  a  reddish  mustache  and  gold-rimmed  spectacles  — 
his  own  personal  addenda,  as  it  were  —  were  the  only  salient 
features.  Not  brilliant,  he  was  rising  by  character,  evinced 
in  an  unconquerable  optimism.  "Keep  a-smiling,  brother  — 
it  costs  you  nothing! "  —  so  Mr.  Geddie's  roguish  eyes  seemed 
continually  to  say.  But  perhaps  they  seemed  to  say  it  more 

335 


Angela's    Business 


than  normally  to-day,  by  way  of  striking  a  happy  average 
with  the  quite  unsmiling  late  incumbent. 

Mary,  during  her  brief  tenancy,  had  stored  here  a  long 
accumulation  of  printed  matter,  chiefly  duplicate  files  of  "The 
New  School,"  with  sundry  assorted  leaflets  of  the  Education 
Reform  League.  Her  task  to-day  was  to  go  through  these 
files,  destroy  what  was  no  longer  useful  to  her,  and  pack  the 
rest  for  removal.  Her  successor  had  thoroughly  prepared  for 
her.  There  on  the  floor  was  the  packing-case,  there  on  the 
floor  was  a  table  to  sit  at,  there  against  the  wall  stood  a  step- 
ladder.  But  Mr.  Geddie  would  not  weary  in  well-doing.  The 
moment  he  understood  what  the  proposition  was,  as  he  termed 
it,  he  said  that,  of  course,  he  would  help  Miss  Wing.  Refusals 
drowned  in  a  sea  of  smiles.  Allow  Miss  Wing  to  climb  that 
rickety  ladder,  and  lift  down  those  heavy  stacks  of  magazines? 
Positively,  she  must  not  ask  him  that.  Trouble?  A  pleasure, 
Miss  Wing;  a  genu-wine  pleasure. 

He  had  his  way,  as  people  of  strong  sunny  character  always 
do.  Mary,  having  overcome  the  impulse  to  make  an  excuse 
and  abandon  the  enterprise,  sat  at  the  little  table.  Kind  Mr. 
Geddie  went  up  and  down  the  ladder,  fetching  her  dusty 
armfuls  to  sort  over.  In  the  intervals,  for  he  had  the  shorter 
end  of  the  job,  he  was  down  on  his  knees  beside  her,  brightly 
stacking  discarded  "  New  Schools  "  into  piles  against  the  wall. 

The  work  went  forward  steadily,  on  the  woman's  part  almost 
in  silence.  That,  however,  made  no  difference.  It  was  the 
man's  power  to  be  able  to  talk  more  than  enough  for  two,  and 
he  did.  As  the  old  assistant  principal  grew  steadily  more  quiet, 
the  new  one  seemed  increasingly  buoyant.  And  it  seemed 
to  Mary  that  she  had  been  listening  to  his  conversation  for 
a  long,  long  time,  at  the  moment  when  she  heard  him  sud 
denly  exclaim,  from  the  ladder:  — 

336 


Angela's    Business 


"Well,  well!  Look  who's  here!  Come  for  the  spring-clean 
ing,  Mr.  Garrott?  Ha,  ha!" 

She,  in  her  inner  absorption,  had  failed  to  hear  the  approach 
ing  feet.  But  at  that  she  raised  her  head,  with  a  kind  of  jerk. 

"Don't  mind  the  dust,  Mr.  Garrott  — it  eats  all  right! 
Ha,  ha!  Walk  in!" 

Mr.  Garrott  stood  silent  in  the  office  door,  looking  at  Miss 
Wing.  The  eyes  of  the  old  friends  briefly  met.  Something  in 
the  young  man's  appearance  vaguely  arrested  Mary  Wing. 
She  had  noted,  as  her  glance  lifted,  the  torn  glove  on  his  right 
hand.  Now  she  was  remotely  aware  that  the  face  looking  back 
at  her  so  intently  appeared  somehow  subtly  changed:  there 
was  something  faintly  wrong  with  it,  it  seemed.  But  sucb 
details  Mary's  consciousness  hardly  registered  at  all.  All  in 
one  flash,  she  wondered  how  he  happened  to  be  here,  thought 
how  good  it  was  of  him  to  come,  and  knew  that  she  had  never 
been  less  glad  to  see  anybody  in  her  life. 

"Good-afternoon,"  said  she. 

"How'do,  Miss  Mary?"  said  Charles;  and  then  started  for 
ward.  "  How  are  you,  Mr.  Geddie?  I  seem  to  be  rather  late  to 
help  with  the  good  work." 

"Yes,  sirree!  —  Can't  come  in  at  the  eleventh  hour  and 
take  our  credit  away!  Can  he,  Miss  Wing?  —  ha,  ha!  All  over 
but  the  applause!" 

However,  Mr.  Geddie  did  not  know  himself  for  a  tactful 
man  for  nothing.  Observing  that  Miss  Wing  continued  to 
drop  magazines  on  the  floor  in  silence,  and  that  her  young 
man  there  did  n't  seem  to  know  what  to  do  with  himself,  he 
gracefully  adopted  a  new  position.  From  the  third  round  of 
the  ladder,  he  made  a  roguish  address,  the  meat  of  which  was 
that  there  was  a  whole  corner  left  of  the  bottom  shelf,  and  if 
Mr.  Garrott  insisted,  etc. 

337 


Angela's    Business 


"I'll  relieve  you  with  pleasure,"  said  Charles,  coldly. 

So  Mr.  Geddie  lumbered  down  from  the  ladder,  wiped  his 
hands  on  his  pocket-handkerchief  and  re-attached  his  cuffs. 
He  implored  Miss  Wing  to  make  herself  absolutely  at  home 
in  his  office,  assured  her,  not  once  but  three  times,  that  John 
the  porter,  on  the  floor  below,  would  be  positively  gratified 
to  do  any  service  for  her,  however  small.  In  the  moment  of 
parting,  he  volunteered  a  new  civility. 

"Why,  here,  Mr.  Garrott!"  he  hastily  exclaimed,  "your 
coat's  all  dusty  in  the  back!  That  won't  do!  Just  a  minute 
while  I  get  my  whisk  — " 

But  Miss  Wing's  young  man  interrupted  him  rudely. 

"No,  I'm  not  dusty  at  all!    Thanks  —  don't  trouble." 

Another  person  who  didn't  know  the  value  of  a  smile, 
clearly.  And  the  man  was  dusty,  of  course.  Well,  no  affair 
of  his,  of  course.  Mr.  Geddie  kept  a-smiling. 

"Well,  good  people!  "  said  he.    "Olive  oil!" 

When  he  had  got  a  polite  distance  down  the  hall,  Miss 
Wing's  young  man  shut  the  office  door  upon  him.  So  at  last 
came  privacy.  For  the  first  time,  since  the  unforgotten  after 
noon  last  month,  Charles  Garrott  stood  alone  with  his  admir 
able  heroine. 

He  moved  toward  her,  deliberating. 

Downstairs  there,  he  had  been  having  five  of  the  most  en 
grossing,  the  most  completely  satisfying,  minutes  of  his  life. 
Being  able  to  come  upstairs  at  all,  he  had  come  in  the  spiritual 
state  of  his  stimulating  experience.  Over  all  that  was  un 
settled  and  unhappy,  there  persisted  in  him  a  fierce  young 
elation.  By  the  oddest  luck,  he  was  not  here  empty-handed, 
after  all:  he  came  with  something  rather  better  than  a  hope 
to  give.  And  doubtless  —  since  he  was  incurably  a  sentence- 
maker  —  there  had  already  come  into  his  head  discreet  phrases 

338 


Angela's    Business 


with  which  to  communicate  the  hope,  at  least:  phrases  which, 
though  gallantly  suppressing  his  own  exploits,  might  yet  be 
somewhat  tinged  with  a  protector's  strength. 

But  all  this  dropped  from  Charles's  mind  in  the  instant 
when  Mary  raised  her  head  over  the  table,  and  looked  at 
him. 

He  had  seen  his  friend  for  a  few  minutes  on  Friday,  her 
first  day  up  and  about.  But  that  passing  glimpse,  it  seemed, 
could  hardly  have  counted.  For  now  her  gaze  had  an  unex 
pected  power  for  him:  the  sight  of  her  came  on  him  with  a  sort 
of  impact,  as  if  this  were  some  one  he  had  heard  about  often, 
but  never  before  seen.  Undoubtedly,  that  small  phenomenon 
was  due  to  the  amount  he  had  been  thinking  about  her  of  late, 
behind  her  back,  as  it  were.  But  beyond  all  this,  the  particu 
lar  look  of  Mary's  face  had  made  him  instantly  certain  that, 
whatever  she  had  gone  to  struggle  with  Angela  about  to-day, 
she  had,  indeed,  been  routed.  And  that  he  had  not  miscal 
culated  the  effect  of  this  upon  her,  he  was  also  certain  from 
the  first  sound  of  her  voice.  .  .  . 

Mary  did  not  look  up  as  her  helper  advanced,  or  cease  the 
work  of  her  hands.  But  it  was  she  who  spoke  first:  — 

"How  did  you  happen  to  come  here?" 

"I've  been  to  your  house.  Your  mother  told  me  you  were 
here." 

She  said,  with  a  curious  stilted  politeness:  "It  was  very 
good  of  you  to  come.  But  really  you  must  not  wait  for  me, 
please.  I  have  a  good  deal  more  to  do  —  a  great  deal  more 
—  and  it  is  work  of  a  sort  that  I  have  to  do  alone." 

"Miss  Mary,"  said  Charles,  "your  mother  told  me,  at  my 
request,  what  has  happened  this  afternoon." 

Mary  flinched,  just  perceptibly.  But  her  voice,  when  she 
spoke,  seemed  harder  than  before. 

339 


Angela's    Business 


"Well,  it's  the  fact.  That's  all  there  is  to  say.  There 
is  n't  anything  more  to  discuss." 

"I  don't  mean  to  discuss  it,  of  course.  There  was  just  one 
thing  I  thought  of  —  a  —  sort  of  suggestion." 

Finding  himself  neither  questioned  nor  forbidden,  he  con 
tinued:  "Do  you  think  it  would  be  such  a  bad  way  out  of  the 
—  the  difficulty,  if  Donald  were  just  to  go  on  here  for  a 
while?" 

Still  Mary  waited,  hardly  encouraging  him,  examining  a 
"  New  School,"  silently  laying  it  down  in  the  packing-case  at 
her  feet. 

"I  know  you  feel,"  said  Charles,  inspecting  the  top  of  her 
hat,  "that  settling  down  to  this  consulting  work,  in  a  city 
that  offers  so  many  distractions  all  the  time,  won't  be  a  good 
thing  for  Donald  —  from  any  point  of  view.  Staying  here 
won't  take  the  place  of  the  chance  with  Gebhardt  he's 
throwing  away,  of  course  —  that 's  pretty  serious.  Still, 
there  ought  to  be  plenty  of  good  work  for  him  to  do  here  — 
is  n't  there?  —  for  a  few  months,  a  year  or  two,  if  necessary. 
That  would  give  him  —  and  you  —  a  little  time  to  adjust 
things  to  —  the  new  conditions.  And  then  from  the  point 
of  view  of  the  Flowers,  too,  —  of  Mrs.  Flower,  in  fact,  —  it 
occurred  to  me  it  might  n't  be  a  bad  sort  of  working  compro 
mise.  .  .  .  What  do  you  think?" 

"I  think  it  is  very  sensible,"  she  replied,  with  the  same 
labored  courtesy.  "It  is  what  I  suggested,  too." 

"Oh,"  said  Charles,  and  paused.  "But  Donald  didn't 
want  to  give  up  Blake  &  Steinert,  I  suppose?" 

"I  have  n't  suggested  it  to  Donald." 

That  brought  a  considerable  silence. 

"It  's  — settled,  then?"    >*~ 

"It  was  settled  last  week." 

340 


Angela's    Business 


A  curious  let-down  feeling  took  possession  of  the  young 
man.  He  pressed  his  hand  to  his  forehead;  and  then  for  the 
first  time  was  aware  that  his  head  ached  furiously.  In  the 
same  moment,  his  eye  was  unpleasantly  caught  by  his  burst- 
out  gloves.  Having  stared  at  his  hands  for  a  second,  he  si 
lently  stripped  off  the  gloves,  balled  them,  and  pitched  the 
ball  into  a  waste-basket  near  by. 

"I'll  just  have  a  look  into  this  closet  for  myself,"  said  he, 
turning  away.  "I  don't  believe  Geddie  — " 

"No!  —  please  don't!  —  don't  trouble!  I  really  don't 
need  any  help,  thank  you.  I  don't ..." 

Her  wish  to  be  alone  was  all  but  woundingly  plain  to  him. 
And  still  it  seemed  to  Charles  physically  impossible  to  turn 
now  and  walk  out  of  the  door.  So,  not  looking  at  her,  he 
answered  in  a  peculiarly  mild  manner  that,  of  course,  this 
was  n?t  help  at  all,  only  a  little  indulgence  of  himself,  which 
she  really  must  n't  refuse  him.  And  while  he  yet  spoke,  allow 
ing  no  opportunity  for  such  refusal,  he  hung  his  hat  on  Mr. 
Geddie's  hook,  and  all  the  forepart  of  him  disappeared  upward 
into  the  closet. 

After  an  interval  rather  longer  than  necessary,  he  re- 
emerged  to  view,  a  few  periodicals  in  one  hand,  a  faded 
bundle  of  typewritten  papers  in  the  other. 

"Geddie's  made  a  clean  sweep.  There's  hardly  another 
armful." 

His  manner  was  almost  as  cheery  as  Geddie's  own.  His 
"note"  was  to  go  ahead  as  if  nothing  had  happened. 

"Put  them  here?"  asked  Charles. 

Mary  Wing's  arms  quivered  a  little  on  the  table. 

"Put  them  anywhere!  It  doesn't  make  the  least  differ 
ence!" 

So  Charles  laid  his  burden  down  on  the  table,  and  quietly 


Angela's    Business 


went  up  the  ladder  again.  Here,  for  a  space,  he  pretended  to 
be  impossibly  busy  over  nearly  empty  shelves. 

And  then,  out  of  the  silence  behind  him,  he  heard  his 
friend's  voice,  painfully  stiff,  somewhat  strained. 

"You  see  —  you  ought  n't  to  have  come  to  see  me  to-day. 
I  —  I  'm  not  fit  for  society.  I  tried  to  warn  you.  I  have  n't 
had  time  —  to  get  philosophical  yet." 

The  helper  spoke  into  the  dusty  closet:  "Well,  you  don't 
need  to  get  philosophical  with  me.  I'm  pretty  mad  myself 

—  as  far  as  that  goes. " 

"I  was  n't  prepared  for  it  —  at  all.  .  .  .  And  then  I've  been 
beating  my  head  against  it  —  like  a  fool  —  all  afternoon." 

Well  he  knew  Mary's  horror  of  weakness,  her  warranted 
confidence  in  her  own  self-control.  Well  he  understood  her 
regret  for  that  uniquely  sharp  speech  of  hers.  Was  it  this,  a 
novel  impulse  to  justify  herself  in  his  eyes,  that  seemed  to 
force  her  on,  beyond  his  expectation  and  against  her  own  will? 

"But  don't  suppose  I  went  there  expecting  to  have  my  own 
way  about  everything  —  manage  them  around  like  children. 
I  did  n't.  I  went  respectfully.  I  went  to  beg.  But  it  was 
no  use." 

Silence:  and  then  the  hard  voice  went  on  rapidly:  — 

"She  and  Donald  had  talked  it  all  over,  and  decided  that 
it  would  be  best  for  his  career  to  go  to  New  York.  She  and 
Donald  ...  I  did  think  that,  as  I  was  planning  Donald's  work 
when  she  was  still  in  short  dresses,  my  opinion  might  have 
some  weight  with  her.  And  I  thought,  just  as  you  did,  that 
something  might  be  saved  if  they  stayed  here  for  the  present 

—  kept  the  house  and  all  the  rest  of  it.   And  then,  of  course, 
I  lost  my  temper  —  that  makes  twice.  ...  I  reminded  her  how 
she  had  told  me  once  that  nothing  could  induce  her  to  leave 
her  mother,  as  a  widow.  .  .  .  What  was  the  use?  Of  course  she 

342 


Angela's    Business 


only  cried,  and  said  it  was  hopeless  to  try  to  explain  to  me  — 
how  differently  a  woman  felt  about  all  these  things  when  she 
was  going  to  be  married.  I  believe  she  said  I  was  incapable 
of  understanding  the  new  emotions  that  came  with  a  great 
love." 

That,  indeed,  seemed  a  romantic  description  of  the  mild, 
chance  product  of  the  Fordette.  However,  the  replete  young 
authority  only  said :  — 

"Then  I  suppose  it's  great  love  that  taught  her  engineering 
so  quickly  —  and  all  Donald's  little  peculiarities?" 

Mary  Wing  made  no  answer.  Her  capable  small  hands  took 
up  the  literature  lately  provided  by  Charles.  And  when  she 
spoke,  it  was  as  if  his  unaccustomed  acrimony  had  met  and 
destroyed  her  own. 

"Oh,  it's  natural  that  we  should  see  everything  differently. 
She  is  really  a  sweet-natured  girl.  I 'm  sorry  already  for  what 
I  said  to  her,  .  .  .  And  her  not  wanting  to  stay  here  —  you 
mustn't  think  that's  just  a  selfish  whim  —  just  wanting  to 
live  in  New  York.  Of  course,  what  she  wants  is  to  have  Donald 
to  herself  —  to  have  their  young  married  life  to  themselves. 
And  my  going  there  to  give  advice  to-day  — naturally  that 
made  her  more  certain  than  ever  that  she  could  never  have 
that  here  —  with  me  just  around  the  corner.  She  let  me  un 
derstand  that,  finally.  She  intimated  that  Donald  had  said 
as  much  —  he  was  tired  of  being  managed.  .  .  .  Oh,  it's  per 
fectly  natural,  perfectly  right.  To-morrow,  I'll  accept  it 
easily  enough.  ...  As  I  say  —  I  have  n't  had  much  time." 

He  was  more  touched  by  that  speech  than  everything  that 
had  gone  before,  yet  more  resolved,  too,  not  to  say,  "I'm 
sorry." 

"As  a  matter  of  fact,"  he  asked  straightforwardly,  "what 
was  decided  —  as  to  Mrs.  Flower?" 

343 


Angela's    Business 


"  It 's  not  decided  yet,  at  all.  However,  I  have  a  plan  —  an 
other  suggestion  —  which  it  seems  to  me  might  meet  some  of 
the  difficulties." 

"Aren't  there  friends  or  relatives  here  that  she  might 
stay  with  for  a  time?" 

"That 'sit.  I  think  I  can  persuade  her  to  live  with  us  — 
till  we  have  a  chance  to  see  how  all  this  —  " 

"With  you?" 

"It's  just  a  hope,  as  I  say.  I  did  n't  think  of  it  till  just 
now.  Mother  is  very  fond  of  her.  And  Wallie  can't  give  up 
college,  of  course.  That  would  be  —  quite  the  worst  thing." 

The  school-teacher  spoke  with  characteristic  matter-of- 
factness.  If  she  was  adding  final  touches  to  the  portraits  of 
two  women,  she  did  it,  certainly,  with  supreme  unconscious 
ness.  In  the  brief  stillness  of  the  office,  she  efficiently  neared 
the  end  of  her  task.  The  top  of  her  table  was  almost  bare,  the 
litter  on  the  floor  was  deep.  And  now  she  spoke  again,  dryly 
and  quite  conclusively. 

"At  any  rate,  nothing  fatal  has  happened.  Nobody  knows 
that  better  than  I  do  —  really.  No  doubt  it 's  personal  vanity 
with  me,  as  much  as  anything.  And  now  — " 

"Do  you  know,"  Charles  Garrott  spoke  up  suddenly,  as  if  he 
did  not  hear  her  at  all  —  "I  think  you  're  the  best  I  ever  knew? 
The  best  —  the  best  —  absolutely  the  most  of  a  person  — " 

She,  the  strong,  seemed  to  start  and  shrink;  she  broke  in 
sharply,  with  instant  signs  of  a  shaken  poise:  "No  —  please  ! 
You  don't  understand  me  at  all.  I  do  —  not  need  sympathy! 
It's  just  what  I've  been  trying  to  say  — " 

"Well,  you  are  n't  getting  it  from  me,  no  fear.  Sympathy! 
If  ever  there  was  honest  looking  up,  if  ever  — " 

"  No !  —  don't !  I  did  n't  tell  you  about  it  for  that !  —  only 
to  explain  why  I  seemed  so  ...  It  was  due  you.  As  I  say, 

344 


Angela's    Business 


nobody  understands  better  than  I  how  unreasonable  it  is  — 
to  be  so  disturbed.  And  if  you  had  n't  come  here  to-day  — " 

"  Won't  you  give  me  credit  for  some  understanding?  If  you 
were  ten  times  as  disturbed,  I  'd  think  it  the  reasonablest — " 

"  Yes  —  for  a  woman.  Well,  I  'm  not  that  kind  of  woman," 
said  Mary  Wing,  with  curious  agitation,  as  if  she  could  stand 
any  sort  of  talk  better  than  this.  "  Please  don't  say  any  more. 
I  don't  tell  my  troubles  to  be  comforted  —  patted  on  the 
head.  I  'm  not  feminine,  I  hope,  after  all  these  knocks.  You 
make  me — " 

"Thank  God,  no  /"  said  the  young  man  on  the  ladder,  con 
siderably  moved. 

And  then  that  connection  which  he  must  have  been  grop 
ing  toward  for  a  month  flashed  startlingly  upon  him,  and  he, 
the  authority,  blurted  out  like  a  boy:  — 

"No  —  you  're  womanly  !  " 

He  saw  his  old  friend's  face  quiver  a  little  as  the  strange 
word  struck  her:  oddly,  it  seemed  to  silence  her.  But  it  was 
not  possible  that  she  could  be  one  half  so  struck  with  that 
word  as  he,  Charles  Garrott,  was.  Mary  Wing  was  a  Womanly 
Woman.  .  .  .  And  now  she  could  no  more  have  stopped  his 
speech  than  she  could  have  stopped  a  river  when  the  one  gate 
in  the  dam,  long  locked,  has  suddenly  burst  open. 

"That's  it.  Of  course.  .  .  .  Funny,  I  was  just  thinking  over 
all  that  as  I  walked  around  here  —  how  different  those 
things  are.  No,  not  different  —  they  don't  belong  in  the  same 
story  at  all.  What's  character  got  to  do  with  —  feathers  in 
the  springtime?  .  .  .  Born  stupid,"  said  Charles,  in  a  low, 
stirred  voice  —  "  that  seems  to  explain  me.  I  'd  better  have 
been  one-eyed  —  beat  me  over  the  head  with  it,  and  still  I 
can't  see.  .  .  .  Won't  see.  That's  it!  —  it's  worse.  I'm  just 
an  old-line  male  —  that's  what.  Just  the  sort  who've  taught 

345 


Angela's    Business 


women  not  to  bother  to  try  to  be  womanly  when  being 
feminine  comes  so  much  cheaper.  Why,  look  at  me,  criticizing 
you  in  my  thoughts,  not  liking  it  because  you  were  —  inde 
pendent.  What  was  that  but  just  pique  —  don't  you  know? — 
just  common  ordinary  male  jealousy  —  because  a  woman 
did  n't  need  my  shoulder  to  lean  on.  Manly  protector  .  .  . 
seventeenth-century  stuff.  Well,  you  've  punished  me,  don't 
you  worry.  .  .  .  Just  standing  where  you  always  stood,  just 
being  your  Self.  Acting  straight  from  your  own  law  all  the 
time,  doing  the  best  sort  of  things,  one  after  the  other  —  the 
biggest,  the  —  the  tender est  — " 

"Don't,"  said  the  grammar-school  teacher  again,  but  in 
the  littlest  voice  he  had  ever  heard  from  her  lips. 

Rapt  as  he  was,  that  voice  penetrated  him.  More,  it  alarmed 
him:  and  with  reason,  too.  Staring  down  with  a  new  fixed 
ness,  touched  with  a  faint,  purely  masculine  horror,  Charles 
beheld  the  strangest  sight  seen  by  him  in  many  a  day.  Mary 
Wing,  the  unconquerable,  had  suddenly  put  her  face  into  her 
hands. 

He  had  really  only  been  finishing  that  other  talk  of  theirs, 
with  a  certain  sense  of  right;  but  of  course  this  was  n't  the 
time  for  that.  He  had  been  indulging  his  analytic  propensity, 
his  fatal  tendency  to  comment,  at  her  expense.  Had  n't  he 
understood  that  she  feared  nothing  so  much  as  his  sympa 
thies?  .  .  . 

His  friend,  in  her  arresting  attitude,  sat  as  rigid  as  a  carven 
woman.  The  stillness  in  the  little  office  was  profound.  Then 
a  voice  strained  out,  very  thin,  but  still  not  defeated:  — 

"Don't  be  alarmed.  I'm  ...  not  going  to  cry." 

And  that  seemed  to  settle  it.  It  was  as  if,  in  that  silent 
struggle  waged  all  the  way  from  the  Flowers'  to  now,  the 
speaking  of  the  word  itself  was  the  fatal  admission.  The 

346 


Angela's    Business 


school-teacher  had  no  sooner  pronounced  it  than  her  arms 
spread  suddenly  out  on  the  table  before  her,  and  her  head 
came  down  upon  them. 

Charles  Garrott,  on  his  ladder,  was  heard  to  take  one 
breath,  sharply.  After  that,  no  sound  came  from  him.  Quite 
motionless  he  sat,  in  the  chance  position  in  which  the  sudden 
disaster  had  overtaken  him:  long  arms  dangling  from  his 
knees,  large  feet  hooked  under  a  ladder-rung,  some  distance 
down.  He  hardly  winked  an  eye. 

Mary  Wing  was  crying.  That  painful  hard  tension  had 
snapped;  the  indomitable  slim  figure  drooped  beaten,  for 
once.  She,  also,  made  little  sound  in  her  peculiar  difficulty. 
But  her  body  shook  with  a  stormy  racking.  And  it  hurt  her, 
he  was  sure;  hurt  her  physically,  as  if  she  could  n't  find  tears 
without  breaking  something  inside.  .  .  . 

Strange  it  seemed  that  once,  in  this  very  room,  and  only 
the  other  day  really,  he  had  wanted  to  see  Mary  cry.  He  had 
thought  of  it  then  as  a  desirable  sort  of  symbol,  had  n't  he? 
—  something  of  that  sort.  What  did  her  tears  have  to  tell 
him  now?  Then  he  had  conceived  himself  as  watching  her 
emotion,  moved  doubtless,  but  yet  with  a  secretly  gratified 
masculinity.  Now  every  heave  of  those  slender  shoulders 
was  like  a  clutch  upon  his  heart. 

And  still  there  was  something  in  Charles  that  was  not  dis 
tress  at  all.  He  was  aware  of  another  and  quite  different 
inner  sense  —  peace,  the  end  of  struggle,  fulfillment  —  he 
could  not  say  what  it  was.  It  was  strange.  He  was  not  un 
happy 

There  came,  after  a  time,  signs  that  his  friend  was  overcom 
ing  that  hard  revolt  of  feelings  too  much  put  upon.  Even  in 
the  beginning  she  had  never  seemed  to  abandon  herself,  quite. 
At  length,  somewhat  unexpectedly,  she  moved,  turned  from 

347 


Angela's    Business 


her  seat  under  his  eye,  and,  rising,  went  away  to  the  office's 
one  window.  There  she  stood,  her  back  toward  him.  And 
presently  she  began  to  clear  her  throat,  with  nervous  quick 
coughings. 

Through  this,  Charles  had  not  spoken,  or  thought  of  do 
ing  so.  To  pat  Mary's  shoulder,  this  time,  had  not  entered 
his  head.  His  instinct  seemed  to  feel  the  banality  of  any  in 
trusion  upon  her  freedom:  she  should  weep  or  not  weep,  just 
as  seemed  best  to  her.  Now,  as  his  grave  eyes  followed  her,  it 
occurred  to  him  that  his  presence  here  had  been,  and  was, 
a  considerable  intrusion.  And  about  the  time  he  had  reached 
this  conclusion,  Mary  spoke,  naturally  enough,  except  that 
a  sharp  catch  of  breath  broke  her  sentence  in  the  middle. 

"I'm  giving  you  ...  a  pleasant  visit  to-day." 

The  young  man  stirred  on  his  perch.  He  answered,  oddly, 
with  a  sort  of  growl :  — 

"That's  right!  I'm  a  fair-weather  friend.  Keep  things 
pleasant  for  me  all  the  time  —  or  good-bye." 

His  heroine  was  sniffing  repeatedly,  in  the  humanest  way. 
She  kept  clearing  her  throat.  Her  movements  made  it  clear 
that  she  was  searching  busily  for  her  handkerchief.  How 
ever,  there  lay  her  handkerchief  on  the  table,  under  his  eye. 
And  if  she,  perhaps,  hardly  wished  to  turn  and  come  for  it 
just  now,  no  more  did  he  see  his  way  clear  to  going  and  taking 
it  to  her. 

"  No  —  but  what 's  the  sense  of  it?  I  'm  —  doing  just  what 
I  told  Angela  not  to  do.  Feeling  sorry  for  myself,  that's  all." 

"Well,  I  don't  feel  sorry  for  you.  Don't  worry  about  that." 

Charles  came  down  the  ladder,  and  stood  a  moment  kick 
ing  at  the  "  New  Schools  "  strewn  about  the  floor. 

"Look  here,  suppose  I  save  time  by  arranging  about  this 
box  now?  You  want  it  to  go  to  your  house,  I  suppose?" 

348 


Angela's    Business 


"No  —  I'm  going  to  send  it  to  the  grammar-school." 

"Oh  —  all  right.  I'll  attend  to  it,"  he  said,  briefly.  "I'll 
tell  the  porter  to  keep  it  to-night,  and  get  a  wagon  to-morrow." 

On  which,  without  more  ado,  he  stepped  from  the  assistant 
principal's  office,  and  shut  the  door  behind  him. 

Charles's  conference  with  the  negro  porter  in  the  corridor 
below  lasted  a  minute,  perhaps.  His  diplomatic  retirement 
lasted  ten  minutes,  at  least.  His  surplus  time  the  young  man 
spent  in  staring  out  of  a  tall  window  into  a  white-paved 
courtyard.  But  that  it  was  a  white-paved  courtyard,  or 
that  it  was  a  courtyard,  he  never  knew.  The  instant  he  found 
that  he  was  staring  at  it,  he  jumped  a  little,  and  went  up 
stairs.  .  .  . 

If  he  had  meant  this  interval  as  a  punctuation  and  the  turn 
ing  of  a  page,  Mary,  it  seemed,  had  so  accepted  it.  Reopening 
Mr.  Geddie's  door,  Charles  saw  that  his  absence  had  been 
employed  for  a  general  setting  to  rights.  The  table  had  been 
moved  back  against  the  wall;  the  books  and  globe  restored  to 
it,  the  chair  Mary  had  occupied  returned  to  its  place,  the 
window  opened  to  blow  out  the  dust.  Mary  herself  stood  in 
the  middle  of  the  room,  coated,  buttoning  her  gloves.  With 
out  looking  at  her  exactly,  he  was  aware  that  the  white  veil 
which  had  been  caught  up  around  her  hat  was  now  let  down. 

Bygones  were  bygones,  clearly:  the  least  said,  the  soonest 
mended.  Charles  remarked,  exactly  as  if  house-cleaning  were 
the  sole  interest  he  knew  of  here:  "Well,  you've  made  a  good 
job  of  it." 

And  Mary  replied,  with  equal  naturalness:  "I  did  what  I 
could.  John  will  hav?  to  attend  to  these  things  on  the  floor." 

"  Yes  —  I  told  him  to  see  to  that  at  once." 

"  He  ought  to  give  the  closet  a  good  cleaning,  too.  I  'd 
better  tell  him  —  this  is  just  the  time." 

349 


Angela's    Business 


"  I  told  him  to  be  sure  to  scrub  the  closet.   It  '11  be  all  right." 

Looking  up,  she  said:  "You  seem  to  have  thought  of  every 
thing." 

"Let  me  get  my  hat,"  said  Charles. 

But  Mary,  standing  in  his  way,  was  regarding  him  with  a 
sudden  directness  he  had  no  wish  to  reciprocate.  And  she  an 
swered  his  remark  about  the  hat  with  a  little  exclamation. 

"  What's  the  matter  with  your  eye  ?  " 

"My  eye?"  said  the  young  man,  and  involuntarily  put  his 
hand  there.  Recollecting,  he  finished:  "Nothing  —  nothing 
at  all." 

The  school-teacher  came  a  step  nearer,  but  he  went  round 
her  as  he  spoke,  and  continued  his  way. 

"But  there's  a  good  deal  the  matter  with  it!"  she  exclaimed, 
concerned.  "It's  swollen  —  it  looks  discolored,  too.  —  How 
did  you  hurt  yourself?" 

"Oh,  that?  Oh!"  said  Charles,  carefully  fitting  on  his  hat, 
and  then  removing  it  again.  "I  remember  now  —  it's  noth 
ing.  Got  a  tumble  this  afternoon,  that's  all.  Stupid  thing." 

"You  must  let  me  get  some  hot  water  down  the  hall.  I'm 
afraid  it's— " 

But  he  indicated,  quite  brusquely,  that  his  eye  was  all 
right,  just  the  way  he  liked  it,  that  having  water  put  on  it 
was,  in  particular,  the  last  thing  he  would  ever  dream  of. 

She  said  behind  him,  slowly,  after  a  pause:  "If  you  won't, 
you  won't,  of  course.  .  .  .  But  it's  so  exactly  like  you — " 

"Ready?"  said  Charles. 

But  when  he  turned  he  found  that  Mary  had  turned,  too, 
after  him  —  stood  facing  him  anew.  And  this  time  the  con 
frontation  was  too  near,  too  immediate,. to  be  further  avoided. 

He  now  discovered  that  the  thin  veil  had  not  withdrawn  his 
friend  very  far.  Looking  at  her  for  the  first  time  since  her 

350 


Angela's    Business 


cataclysm,  he  saw  that  her  delicate  face  wore  that  look  de 
scribed  as  "rain-washed,"  which  commonly  means  peace,  but 
peace  at  a  price.  The  redness  of  her  eyelids  was  quite  per 
ceptible.  What  struck  the  young  man  particularly,  however, 
was  the  look  of  the  blue  eyes  themselves.  More  or  less  irrele 
vant  eyes  he  had  always  thought  them,  for  all  the  heavy  arched 
brows  which  so  emphasized  their  faculty  for  steady,  some 
times  disconcerting,  interrogation.  That  characteristic  grave 
intentness  was  in  Mary's  gaze  now:  but  it  was  not  this  that 
gave  her  look  its  power  to  hold  Charles  Garrott  in  his  tracks. 

The  peculiar  commotion  within  him  gave  forth  in  a  short 
laugh,  testy  and  embarrassed:  "Honestly,  if  you  say  the 
word  'eye'  to  me  again  — " 

"I  wasn't  going  to  speak  of  your  eye,"  said  Mary  Wing, 
with  quite  remarkable  meekness.  .  .  .  "I  was  thinking  of  that 
remark  you  made  —  about  being  a  fair-weather  friend." 

And  then  she  went  on  hurriedly,  with  a  rare,  impulsive 
ness:  "I've  just  been  thinking  —  I  don't  suppose  since  the 
world  began  there  was  ever  such  another  rainy-day  friend 
as  you.  It 's  got  so  now  that  I  never  get  into  trouble  without 
thinking  right  away  —  as  I  was  thinking  this  afternoon  when 
I  left  the  Flowers'  —  that  you  '11  be  right  there  to  help  me 
with  it.  Yes,  I  was.  And  it's  so  —  perfect.  Nothing  to 
spoil  it  ever  —  not  one  thing  for  you  to  gain  —  all  just  your 
rather  extravagant  idea  of  what  being  a  friend  means.  You 
don't  know  —  how  much  it  means.  ..." 

The  strange  speech  —  strange  blossom  of  her  disruptive 
emotion  —  ended  a  little  short;  but  that  it  ended  was  the 
principal  thing.  Doubtless  there  had  been  a  time  when 
words  such  as  these  from  Mary  Wing,  this  fine  frank  expres 
sion  of  abiding  friendship,  would  have  been  sweet  and  ac 
ceptable  to  Charles  Garrott,  crowning  him  with  a  full  reward. 

35i 


Angela's    Business 


But  it  seemed  that  that  time  must  have  passed,  somewhat 
abruptly.  .  .  . 

The  two  moderns  stood,  gazing  full  at  each  other.  And  now, 
in  the  same  moment,  a  little  color  tinged  the  girl's  cheek, 
beneath  her  veil,  and  the  young  man  turned  rather  pale. 

"Miss  Mary,  you  must  be  dreaming,"  said  Charles,  gently. 
"  I  Jve  never  done  anything  for  you  in  my  life.  We  both  know 
that.  Let's  go." 

Mary,  her  eyes  falling,  had  resumed  the  buttoning  of  her 
gloves.  She  moved  toward  the  door.  The  descent  of  the  High 
School  stairs  was  made  in  comparative  silence.  The  chief  item 
of  importance  developed  was  that  Mary  intended  to  go  home 
by  street-car;  she  was  tired,  she  mentioned.  It  seemed  that 
Charles,  on  the  contrary,  had  no  intention  of  foregoing  his 
afternoon  constitutional.  He  said  that  he  would  see  Miss 
Mary  to  her  car,  however;  and  he  did. 

So  the  old  friends  parted  casually  on  a  street  corner,  as  they 
had  done  a  hundred  times  before. 

But  in  the  Studio,  there  could  be  no  such  reserve,  no  such 
slurring  of  the  characteristic  services  of  men.  Here  combat 
must  have  its  fair  due,  in  the  moral  order  of  a  too  sedentary 
world.  Judge  Blenso,  in  brief,  from  whom  no  secrets  were  hid, 
had  the  full  facts  relative  to  the  altered  eye  within  ten  minutes 
of  Charles's  homecoming,  an  hour  later;  and  the  Judge's  cold 
manner,  already  somewhat  softened  by  the  heartening  accept 
ance  of  Entry  3,  straightway  dissolved  in  exultation  and  proud 
joy.  The  reconciliation  between  uncle  and  nephew  was  instan 
taneous  and  immutable,  and  there  followed,  by  consequence, 
the  most  broken,  the  most  conversational,  evening  in  the 
history  of  the  Studio. 

Charles  was  very  glad  to  be  reconciled  with  his  relative.  He 
was  very  glad  to  feel  that  his  secretary  no  longer  viewed  him 

352 


Angela's    Business 


with  bald  disgust.  Nevertheless,  there  were  times,  neces 
sarily,  when  a  writer  wished  that  he  had  no  relative  and  secre 
tary  at  all;  and  this,  in  a  word,  was  one  of  them.  Charles  did 
not  wish,  to-night,  to  go  over  and  over  one  set  of  primitive 
facts  indefinitely;  he  did  not  wish  to  listen  to  sporting  anec 
dote  and  reminiscence,  hour  after  hour;  in  chief,  he  did  not 
wish  to  go  to  bed  at  half-past  ten  o'clock.  However,  he  did 
each  and  all  of  these  things,  perforce. 

" Always  retire  early  after  a  fight!  —  that  was  my  father's 
rule,  long  as  he  lived!"  cried  Uncle  George,  his  black  eyes 
dangerously  bright.  .  .  .  "No  —  let's  see.  Before  a  fight  — 
that  was  father's  way!  Well,  good  gad!  —  too  late  for  that 
now!  You  come  along  to  bed,  my  dear  fellow!  ..." 

But,  in  time,  a  sweet  snoring  from  the  parallel  white  couch 
indicated  freedom,  welcome  solitude,  at  last.  And  then  the 
young  man  rose  noiselessly  in  the  dark,  and  slipped  back  to 
the  familiar  Studio,  where  all  his  personal  life  had  so  long  had 
its  heart  and  center.  On  the  old  writing-table,  in  front  of 
which  he  had  sat  and  pondered  so  many  hours,  so  many 
nights,  the  green-domed  lamp  was  set  burning  anew.  How 
ever,  Charles  did  not  sit  at  his  table  now.  Beside  the  lamp, 
Big  Bill  without  surcease  ticked  off  the  flying  minutes  of  a 
writer's  prized  leisure.  But  Charles  heeded  not  Big  Bill. 
Wrapped  in  a  bathrobe  grown  too  short  for  his  long  shanks, 
he  paced  his  carpet  on  slippered  feet,  up  and  down;  and  there 
was  no  such  thing  as  bedtime  now.  For  this  day  the  authority 
had  made  the  last  and  the  best  of  all  his  many  discoveries 
about  Woman:  and  he  did  not  see  how  he  could  ever  sleep 
again. 


XXIV 

LUEMMA,  the  twelve-dollar  cook,  had  never  dreamed 
of  having  opera-glasses  of  her  own;  hence  she  looked 
pleased,  for  once  in  her  life,  when  her  departing  young 
mistress  unexpectedly  presented  her  with  a  pair:  old  and 
somewhat  shabby,  doubtless,  but  still  possessing  the  valuable 
power  of  bringing  distant  objects  near.  And  it  must  be  as 
sumed  that  the  nice  man  who  sold  the  gasoline  was  equally 
glad  to  have  the  Fordette  for  his  own:  else  he  would  probably 
not  have  fattened  up  the  trousseau,  one  day,  by  purchasing 
the  interesting  little  vehicle  (cheap)  for  cash. 

Because  of  mourning  in  the  bride's  family,  the  Flower- 
Manford  nuptials  would  be  "very  quiet."  Invitations  were 
strictly  limited  to  near  relatives  of  the  contracting  parties, 
with  a  very  few  of  the  most  intimate  friends.  So  the  social 
columns  of  the  "Post"  had  warned  and  notified  all  persons 
in  due  season.  However,  Charles  Garrott,  reading,  was  not 
cast  down.  As  the  groom's  chosen  supporter  in  his  "most 
need,"  Charles  had  had  his  fixed  place  from  the  beginning. 
Further,  he  considered  himself  fully  entitled  to  be  present 
in  the  category  of  intimate  friends,  not  to  mention  his  pecul 
iar  relation  as  one  who  had  narrowly  escaped  a  yet  closer 
privilege  in  the  premises. 

Angela's  was  an  afternoon  wedding:  the  hour  of  "taking 
place,"  five  o'clock.  At  four  o'clock  on  the  set  day,  Charles 
prematurely  snapped  his  tutorial  watch  at  Miss  Grace  (who 
was  still  waiting),  and  rushed  away  to  his  rooms.  At  half-past 
four,  after  scenes  of  wild  haste,  he  stood  out  in  the  Studio, 

354 


Angela's    Business 


for  final  inspection.  He  was  arrayed  in  what  the  Britons  like 
to  call  a  "morning  coat":  a  morning  coat  new-pressed  by 
Judge  Blenso's  skillful  hand  and  patent  iron,  made  glorious 
by  Judge  Blenso's  best  new  waistcoat,  especially  urged  for  the 
occasion.  Now  the  admiring  secretary  pinned  a  white  carna 
tion  in  the  morning-coat  lapel,  as  excited  over  it  all,  oddly 
enough,  as  if  the  wedding  afoot  were  his  young  employer's 
own.  So  dismissed  with  a  blessing,  Charles  jumped  into  a 
taxicab,  at  four  thirty-five  precisely,  and  shot  away  to  the 
Bellingham.  Here,  in  a  bedroom  upstairs,  a  brief  delay  oc 
curred,  owing  to  the  appearance  and  behavior  of  the  bride 
groom.  The  face  that  Donald,  in  his  regalia,  turned  upon  his 
best  man,  bursting  in,  was  seen  to  be  a  pale  green  in  color; 
his  voice  and  speech  were  highly  erratic,  his  attempt  at  a 
brave  smile  a  sight  to  rend  one's  heart.  On  this  pitiful  funk, 
Charles's  gibes,  his  appeals  to  the  higher  nature,  had  but  small 
effect.  "Here's  the  ring,"  said  the  groom,  with  a  sick  croak. 
"Charlie,  had  n't  I  better  take  one  little  drink?" 

However,  the  cab  was  swift.  The  drive  to  Center  Street 
was  but  a  matter  of  five  minutes.  Once  more  the  two  young 
men  were  stepping,  side  by  side,  up  the  worn  brick  walkway. 
It  made  Charles  think  of  the  day  they  had  come  to  return 
the  books.  But  this  time  the  line  of  vehicles  before  the 
weather-beaten  door  was  conclusive  testimony  to  the  triumph 
ant  activity  within. 

In  the  hall,  a  lady  greeted  them,  a  near  relative  doubt 
less.  A  dim  pleased  significant  hush  seemed  to  emanate 
from  the  lady,  and  pervade  the  house.  From  behind  the  dark 
curtains  of  the  parlor,  there  proceeded  the  murmur  of  as 
sembled  persons,  waiting.  Even  the  hatstand,  though  es 
sentially  unchanged,  somehow  conveyed  a  mysterious  ex 
pectancy. 

355 


Angela's    Business 


They  were  sent  aloft  to  an  upper  chamber,  conceived  to  be 
Wallie's.  Here  they  were  instructed  to  wait  quietly  till  some 
body  had  need  of  them. 

The  waiting  was  rather  trying.  Tete-a-tete  in  the  small  bare 
room,  groom  and  attendant  talked  but  fitfully.  Donald  seemed 
to  have  drawn  little  courage  from  his  dram.  He  sat  stiffly 
on  a  chair-edge,  jumping  at  each  peal  of  the  loud  little  bell 
below.  Much  more  unreasonably,  the  best  man  showed  signs 
of  nervousness,  too:  it  was  observed  that  he  had  cut  himself 
twice  while  shaving.  And  suddenly,  jerking  out  his  watch,  he 
announced  that  probably  he  had  better  step  out  for  a  minute 
—  reconnoiter  — -  see  what  he  could  see. 

"They  ought  to  want  you  now,  seems  to  me,"  quoth  he. 
"I'll  see.  You  sit  tight,  right  there." 

"Awright,"  croaked  Donald. 

So  Charles  stepped  out  from  the  nuptial  waiting-room,  and 
closed  the  door  behind  him.  Having  done  this,  he  came  to  a 
standstill,  abruptly:  for  here,  in  the  Flowers'  still  upstairs 
hall,  he  beheld  just  the  sight  he  had  gone  forth  to  seek. 

At  the  other  end  of  the  hall,  in  the  dimness,  stood  the 
bride's  attendant,  Cousin  Mary  Wing.  She,  too,  had  just  come 
out  of  a  door,  it  seemed;  she,  too,  had  stopped  and  was  gazing. 
And  the  first  look  of  the  blue  eyes,  over  the  space,  released 
in  him,  the  old  helper  with  his  secret  help,  a  vast  content;  just 
touched  with  a  subtle  sadness  that  such  a  little  gain  could 
mean  so  much  to  her  now. 

He  moved  toward  her  in  the  expectant  quiet. .  .  . 

Doubtless,  it  was  no  small  thing  that  Mr.  Mysinger  had 
kept,  more  or  less,  that  promise  he  had  made  under  threat 
and  duress;  marvel  enough  that  he  had,  in  fact,  "personally 
requested"  Mr.  Senff  to  "see  what  could  be  done,"  etc.,  as 
agreed.  Surely  the  whole  matter  had  been  fuller  of  openings  for 

356 


Angela's    Business 


double-dealing  than  an  egg  was  of  meat.  And  yet,  to  Charles, 
the  upshot  of  all  the  hoping  and  planning  had  been  a  cruel 
disappointment.  For  Life,  alas,  still  differs  from  Romance, 
realities  still  refuse  to  fade  like  a  dream,  at  just  the  suitable 
moment.  In  brief,  the  School  Board,  by  a  majority  of  one, 
had  yesterday  ruled  that  Mary  should  have  her  reappoint- 
ment  to  the  High  School  staff,  "as  soon  as  arrangements 
would  permit";  but  of  the  assistant  principal's  office  no  word 
was  said. 

To  one  who  had  voluntarily  surrendered  her  great  promo 
tion,  this  seemed  but  a  scanty  recompense.  And  as  for  the  new 
plan,  his  and  Hazen's,  concerning  the  Assistant  Superintend- 
encyof  Schools  next  year  —  no  less — ("  There 's  really  a  good 
chance,  now  that  the  Mysinger  bunch  are  showing  a  better 
spirit,"  said  Hazen)  —  that  was  much  too  remote  to  seem 
very  substantial  just  now.  .  .  . 

In  the  dark  upstairs  hall,  the  friends  greeted  briefly,  in  voices 
scarcely  above  a  whisper.  Mary  said  hurriedly:  "Donald's 
here?  Angela '11  be  ready  to  see  him  in  just  a  second." 

"I'll  produce  him  —  dead  or  alive." 

The  best  man  laid  his  hand  on  the  banister.  But  his  sub- 
consciousness  warned  him  that  the  banisters  were  dusty,  and 
he  took  his  hand  away. 

"You  look  happy  to-day." 

"Yes  —  shouldn't  I  be?  Weren't  you  —  pleased,  when 
you  read — " 

"They've  treated  you  abominably  —  no  other  way  to  ex 
press  it." 

She  smiled  at  him,  but  looked  away.  And  he  perceived, 
or  thought  he  did,  that  the  memory  of  their  last  meeting 
remained  with  her,  touching  her  manner  with  a  faint  self- 
consciousness. 

357 


Angela's    Business 


"You  are  hard  to  satisfy,"  she  said.  "I've  felt  like  sing 
ing  all  day.  .  .  .  Will  you  tell  Donald  to  come  now?  " 

"Yes.   I'm  going  to  see  you  after  this  is  over?" 

But  no,  she,  the  busy,  was  to  stay  here  for  the  night,  it 
seemed,  keeping  Mrs.  Flower  company  in  her  daughterless- 
ness.  And  Charles,  having  anticipated  this  occasion  princi 
pally  as  her  holiday-time  and  his  own,  turned  away  with  the 
sense  that  most  of  the  wedding  was  over.  .  .  . 

Yet  this,  of  course,  was  but  the  side-play  of  elders,  counting 
for  nothing.  Now  the  prime  action  of  the  day,  the  culminating 
hour,  was  at  hand. 

Donald  was  whisked  away  for  a  brief  glimpse  at  his  love. 
Returning,  he  confronted  almost  immediately  the  moment  of 
his  public  appearance  and  confession.  Word  came  to  Wallie's 
room  that  the  gentlemen  were  to  descend  forthwith,  for  bet 
ter  or  worse.  "  Now  then ! "  whispered  Charles,  as  they  started 
down  —  "  chest  out,  chin  up ! "  And  Donald  grinned  back  fee 
bly,  as  if  to  prove  to  himself  that  he  still  could.  Now  the  dim 
hush  deepened  and  thickened,  the  little  house  seemed  to  hold 
its  breath.  There  was  no  music  to  cover  these  preliminaries, 
because  of  the  mourning.  In  complete  stillness,  groom  and  es 
cort  stepped  through  the  curtains  into  the  assembled  company, 
which,  though  limited  in  numbers  as  it  was,  seemed  to  fill  the 
little  car-shaped  parlor.  Through  a  narrow  lane  between 
vaguely  discerned  relatives  and  friends,  the  young  men 
moved  to  their  appointed  place.  Here  they  stood,  almost 
stepping  on  a  stout  clergyman,  undergoing  his  frank,  inter 
ested  scrutiny,  through  a  dreadful  pause.  Then  at  last  a  stir 
in  the  company  made  it  clear  that  the  bride  was  at  hand;  and 
after  that  Donald  could  feel  that  nobody  was  paying  any  at 
tention  to  him. 

So  without  great  pomp  or  ritual,  fuss  or  feathers,  came 

358 


Angela's    Business 


the  great  moment  to  which  all  one  woman's  life  had  looked 
forward,  to  which,  conceivably,  it  might  all  look  back.  Stand 
ing  statue-like  a  few  feet  from  her,  the  fingers  of  one  hand 
feeling  in  Judge  Blenso's  waistcoat-pocket  for  the  ring,  those 
of  the  other  resting  lightly  on  the  cold  Latrobe,  Charles  lis 
tened  to  the  beautiful  words  which  converted  Angela  Flower 
into  Mrs.  Donald  Manford. 

Angela  "was  married  in  a  traveling-suit."  She  was  a  little 
pale,  like  her  lord  and  master;  her  responses  were  just  audible. 
And  never  had  Charles  seen  her  look  so  maidenly  sweet,  so 
feminine  and  engaging  and  desirable.  Her  soft  and  pretty 
face,  yet  unbroken  by  a  line,  was  immensely  serious.  Her  look 
into  the  beyond  was  faintly  wistful,  a  little  awed,  supremely 
innocent.  A  wonder  dawned  in  the  great  dark  eyes.  Here  girl 
hood  ended:  in  great  happiness,  doubtless,  yet  in  great  mys 
teries  too.  Here  came  change,  so  colossal  that  no  man  could 
ever  know  change  in  these  terms.  Where  led  this  unknown 
parting  of  the  ways,  what  was  the  heart  and  meaning  of  Life? 

And  Mary  Wing's  face,  glimpsed  once  or  twice  over  the 
bride's  shoulder,  was  surprised  wearing  much  the  same  look 
too.  No  woman,  perhaps,  even  a  fighting  educator,  listens 
quite  unmoved  to  these  old  words.  Sweetly  pensive,  Mary 
gazed  at  her  so  different  cousin.  And  Charles  wo'ndered  if  she 
had  got  quite  philosophical  now,  and  wished  that  she  had. 
something  much  bigger  to  feel  like  singing  about  to-day.  .  .  . 

"I  pronounce  you  mon  and  wife,"  cried  the  parson:  and  it 
was  not  the  first  thing  he  had  pronounced  loudly,  either. 

So  came  relaxation  from  the  solemn  stiffness.  There  was  a 
flutter  of  movement,  human  speech  again,  the  swift  embrace 
of  bride  and  bride's  mother.  Then  speech  became  free  and 
general,  and  the  near  relatives  rushed  upon  the  happy  pair. 

Charles,  having  wrung  Donald's  hand  in  the  approved 

359 


Angela's    Business 


manner,  had  his  due  turn  before  the  center  of  the  visible  world. 
It  was  the  first  time  he  had  seen  Angela,  to  speak  to,  since 
the  day  of  the  party-call.  But,  though  she  was  naturally  a 
little  nervous  and  staccato  in  the  circumstances,  he  considered 
that  she  received  his  felicitations  with  dignity  and  graciousness. 

"Donald  and  I  appreciated  your  gift  so  much.  I  hope  you 
got  my  note?  It  was  perfectly  lovely.  We  shall  think  of  you 
whenever  we  use  it." 

Interesting,  indeed,  it  was  to  Charles  to  see  these  pretty 
eyes,  that  he  had  once  caused  to  weep,  resting  upon  him  with 
this  genuine  bright  restless  indifference. 

"When  you're  in  New  York,  you  must  be  sure  to  let  us 
know.  Donald  and  I  will  always  be  so  glad  to  see  you.  I  hope 
we  '11  have  a  guest-room,  and  then  you  must  come  to  stay  with 
us.  I  do  hope  you  will  have  better  luck  with  your  stories,  Mr. 
Garrott.  I  '11  be  watching  for  you  in  the  magazines  —  re 
member!  How  do  you  do,  Cousin  Annie?  Donald  and  I  ap 
preciated  your  gift  so  much  ..." 

So  Charles  Garrott  passed  on,  a  bachelor  still,  still  thinking 
about  his  "story."  .  .  . 

In  the  "small  reception  following"  —  to  quote  the  "Post" 
again  —  Charles  did  what  he  could  to  make  the  affair  a  suc 
cess,  circulating  about  like  a  valued  member  of  the  family, 
speaking  winningly  to  old  ladies  whom  he  did  not  know, 
heartening  the  timid  with  cake  and  wine.  His  own  best  mo 
ments  in  the  reception  were  short  talks  with  two  Flowers, 
brothers  of  the  bride.  But  Wallie,  the  chemist  and  lamp- 
repairer,  —  so  it  was  now  written  on  the  stars,  —  was  down 
for  his  Easter  vacation  only:  he  was  returning  to  college  next 
week.  "The  Wings  want  mother  to  visit  them,  till  I  come 
back  in  June,"  he  let  fall,  with  truly  masculine  unconscious 
ness;  and  felt  no  irony  in  his  sister's  impending  departure  to 

360 


Angela's    Business 


lead  her  own  life,  while  Mary  Wing,  staying  at  home,  took 
care  of  her  mother. 

As  for  the  older  brother,  the  wealthy  and  generous  Tommy, 
it  seemed  that  he  had  run  on  all  the  way  from  Pittsburg  for 
the  express  purpose  of  "giving  Angela  away."  A  handsome 
volatile  little  chap,  Tommy  proved  to  be,  with  a  mustache,  a 
manner,  and  a  worried  look  in  the  corners  of  his  eyes:  and 
Charles,  introduced,  examined  him  with  unaffected  interest. 
For  Charles  had  often  thought  of  Tommy,  often  wondered  if 
Tommy  might  not  be,  at  heart,  a  master  humorist.  Unluckily, 
that  interesting  point  was  never  settled,  the  acquaintance 
being  cut  short  untimely  by  the  general  movement  toward  the 
hall. 

The  embarkation  of  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Manford  was  "very 
quiet."  There  was  no  hurling  of  old  slippers,  no  unseemly  mer 
riment.  They  came  down  the  narrow  stairs  amid  a  little  rice, 
a  last  subdued  chorus  of  farewells.  The  bride's  pallor  was  no 
ticed  now,  her  pretty  smile  was  a  little  fixed.  The  groom,  on 
the  contrary,  affected  the  hearty,  the  jovial:  his  manly  back 
bone  was  obviously  reasserting  itself,  now  that  he  was  a 
lawful  protector  henceforward.  It  was  observed  on  all  sides 
that  they  made  a  good-looking  and  well-matched  couple. 

So  Angela  and  Donald  went  out  on  their  great  adventure. 
And  Charles  went  with  them  down  the  walkway,  with  a  bag 
or  two  to  carry,  doing  his  duty  as  he  saw  it,  to  the  end.  With 
his  own  hands  he  clicked  shut  the  door  of  their  wedding- 
coach.  (A  liveried  one  it  was,  the  symbolic  vehicle  not  be 
ing  available,  for  reasons  explained.)  "We'll  hope  to  see  you 
soon,  in  our  own  Home,"  said  Angela,  the  Home-Maker,  the 
very  last  thing.  And  then  the  coach  leapt  away,  and  he, 
the  old  principal  friend,  stood  motionless,  bareheaded  in  the 
mild  sunshine,  staring  after  it.  ... 

361 


Angela's    Business 


Stepping  up  on  the  verandah  again,  Charles  encountered  the 
relative  who  had  welcomed  him  on  arrival  —  Mrs.  Flinchman, 
Finchman,  did  she  say?  —  and  who  now  welcomed  him  anew, 
beaming. 

"Well,  Mr.  Garrott!  —  your  friend  is  a  fortunate  young 
man,  is  he  not?  I  don't  think  I  ever  knew  a  sweeter,  truer, 
more  womanly  girl.  And  you,"  she  queried,  with  immense 
archness,  "knew  her  so  very  well,  too,  I  believe?" 

He  intimated  pleasantly  that  few,  indeed,  had  known  her 
better,  perhaps:  whereon  the  lady's  expression  grew  more 
significant  than  ever. 

"Well,  no  wonder  the  men  were  all  flocking  about  her, 
I'm  sure  —  a  lovely,  old-time  young  woman!  But  I  under 
stand  it  was  love  at  first  sight  with  these  two  —  they  simply 
flew  together!  Ah,"  said  Mrs.  Finchman  (Flinchman?)  with 
a  sigh,  which,  however,  did  not  disturb  the  deeply  gratified 
look  indigenous  to  women  at  weddings  —  "ah,  it's  very 
sweet!  A  real  old-fashioned  romance,  that's  what  I  call  it, 
Mr.  Garrott!  And  now  that  we've  come  to  the  end  of  the  story, 
who  can  doubt  that  they  '11  live  happy  ever  after  —  as  you 
literary  men  are  so  fond  of  putting  it?  " 

"Who,  indeed,  madam?  It  —  all  went  off  very  smoothly, 
I  thought?  Well!—" 

"You  must  be  going?  Then  g00d-bye!  — so  sorry  it's  over! 
Knowing  of  you  so  well  as  dear  Angela's  faithful  friend,  Mr. 
Garrott,  I  feel  that  we  are  anything  but  strangers,  and  hope 
so  much  you  will  find  time  to  come  in  and  see  us,  one  evening 
very  soon.  We  live  quietly  on  Mason  Street,  next  to  the 
Methodist  Church  —  I  and  my  sweet  girl  Jennie." 

He  left  the  house,  after  all,  with  Mary  Wing,  who  was  going 
home  for  an  hour's  work  on  school  examination-bookSj  be- 

362 


Angela's    Business 


fore  returning  to  sup  with  Mrs.  Flower.  This  decision  she  had 
casually  communicated,  by  the  hatstand  just  now.  So  the 
"  holiday- time  "  came  to  a  six-blocks' walk:  and  even  that  was 
an  after-thought.  Truly,  if  a  man  had  a  mind  to  see  this 
woman,  without  definite  transactions  to  discuss,  he  had  need 
of  all  his  delicacy  and  tact.  Calls,  drives,  bridge-parties,  going 
to  places,  doing  things:  she  had  no  room  in  her  life  for  such 
as  these.  Time  was  more  precious  to  Mary  than  to  a  writer. 
And  she  had  convinced  one  writer,  at  least,  by  a  moving 
tribute  to  his  perfect  friendship,  that  she  had  never  had  a 
personal  thought  of  him  in  her  life. 

But  Charles  did  not  despair.  He  was  a  young  man  still. 
And  meantime  he  was  happy. 

"You  should  wear  a  hat  like  that  every  day,"  she  said, 
agreeably,  as  they  turned  into  Washington  Street.  "You 
look  seven  feet  tall  at  least.  ...  By  the  way,  did  you  feel 
your  ears  burning,  about  one  o'clock  to-day?" 

He  said  no,  and  smiled  a  little.  Her  intention  of  keeping 
the  conversation  away  from  certain  topics  —  topics  that 
might  have  been  uppermost  in  both  their  minds  to-day,  per 
haps  —  had  been  perfectly  evident  to  him  from  the  moment 
they  crossed  the  verandah. 

"I  met  Judge  Blenso  as  I  came  home  to  lunch,"  continued 
Mary,  "and  he  stopped  for  a  talk  —  purely  to  tell  me  what 
a  wonderful  person  you  were,  it  seemed.  But  in  that  connec 
tion,  he  gave  me  some  exciting  news  —  that  you  've  just  had 
a  very  flattering  offer  for  ' Bondwomen '  —  and  refused  it!  I 
could  n't  understand  why." 

At  that,  he  looked  subtly  pleased,  while  affecting  but  a 
modest  amusement.  The  event  in  question  had  been,  in  truth, 
sweet  balm  to  the  spirit  and  the  confidence  bruised  in  so  many 
rebuffs.  Still,  his  reply  was  only  that  his  relative  was  born  for 

363 


Angela's    Business 


a  press-agent  clearly.  Requested  to  explain  this  dark  saying, 
he  gave  a  light  disparaging  account  of  his  only  offer,  stating 
that  Appleholt  Brothers,  before  accepting  his  book,  had  de 
sired  him  to  rewrite  it  throughout,  completely  revolutionizing 
the  character  of  his  heroine  and  omitting  not  less  than  fifty 
thousand  words,  including  the  existing  plot. 

Mary  glanced  up  at  him.  "I'm  taking  this  with  a  little 
salt  — shall  I?" 

The  author  laughed.  "Well,  it  was  about  like  that.  Still," 
he  added,  as  if  there  were  such  a  thing  as  carrying  modesty 
too  far,  —  "  of  course  I  could  do  what  they  want  easily  enough 
—  in  a  month,  I  think." 

"  You  don't  seem  excited  at  all.  But  you  are  n't  going  to  do 
it?" 

"  On  the  contrary,  I  have  now  formally  changed  the  name  of 
my  old  novel  to  '  Bandwomen,'  and  —  put  it  in  the  Morgue." 

"The  Morgue?" 

"A  repository  for  deceased  manuscripts,  recently  founded 
by  my  relative." 

"Oh!"  said  she,  slowly.  And,  after  a  pause:  "You  don't 
feel  any  longer  that  it's  good?" 

"  I  do  feel  that  it 's  good !  I  'd  swear  it  —  before  a  publishers' 
convention.  But  —  it  does  n't  happen  to  be  the  story  I  want 
to  write  any  more.  I'm  not  interested  in  it." 

There  was  another  pause. 

"It  doesn't  represent  you  now,  I  suppose?  And  the  one 
you  do  want  to  write?  —  you  're  writing  it,  are  n't  you? 
Judge  Blenso  says  you  work  till  all  hours  of  the  night  —  and 
this  is  going  to  be  your  masterpiece." 

"I  shall  have  to  caution  the  Judge  about  this,  I  see.  We 
won't  have  a  friend  left,  between  us." 

"But  I'm  interested,  very  much  so.  I've  wondered  .  . . 

364 


Angela's    Business 


Do  you  remember  your  speech  at  the  Redmantle  Club  last 
winter  —  on  work  for  women?  Do  you  think  you'd  make  the 
same  speech  to-day?" 

"Oh,"  he  said,  lightly,  "I  don't  know  quite  so  much  as  I 
did  last  winter,  you  see.  I  'm  not  in  the  class  with  the  lady  in 
Sweden  any  more.  .  .  .  Why  do  you  suspect  my  —  loyalty?  " 

"Suspect?  —  no.  I  was  only  deducing  from  what  you  just 
said.  I  know  something  about  the  point  of  view  you  took 
in  'Bondwomen'  —  you  told  me  once  —  and  now  if  you're 
so  dissatisfied  with  it  that  — " 

"No!  — no!  It  isn't  that!  My  point  of  view  hasn't 
changed  at  all.  It's  only — " 

He  glanced  down  at  her,  and  away,  suddenly  struck  with 
hidden  significances,  abruptly  recalling  that  this  woman  be 
side  him  had  played  hardly  less  part  in  the  making  of  "Bond 
women"  than  in  "Bondwomen's"  final  consignment  to  the 
Morgue.  .  .  . 

"I  —  I  want  to  approach  the  whole  question  differently 
—  lay  a  different  emphasis  —  that's  all.  .  .  .  But  if  I  believed 
in  the  value  of  work  last  year,  as  —  as  a  liberal  education  in 
responsibility  —  I  believe  in  it  ten  times  as  much  now. 
Don't  you  know  that?" 

"I'm  glad  you  feel  so.  And  that's  what  you're  going  to 
say  in  this  book?" 

"Hardly  anything  else." 

They  walked  on  a  little  way  in  silence.  The  afternoon  was 
fine;  the  last  flickers  of  a  vernal  sun  danced  along  the  side 
walks.  Many  people  moved  on  the  promenade.  The  passing 
moderns  attracted  the  favorable  gaze  of  not  a  few  acquaint 
ances.  In  appearance,  Mary  was  judged  one  of  the  variable 
women.  She,  the  worker,  with  her  habitually  colorless  face 
and  faintly  fragile  look,  responded  remarkably  to  dress,  as 

365 


Angela's    Business 


Charles  had  once  before  had  occasion  to  note.  And  to-day, 
she  was  dressed  as  for  a  holiday  and  a  fete.  However,  he 
hardly  looked  at  her  once,  throughout  the  brief  walk. 

"Do  you  know,"  she  said  suddenly,  again  with  some  touch 
of  consciousness,  he  thought,  —  "  every  conversation  you  and 
I  have  had  for  months  has  been  about  me?  That  came  over 
me,  with  a  sort  of  shock  —  the  other  day.  I  feel  that  there 's  a 
great  arrears  to  make  up.  And  I  doubt  if  you  know  how  much 
I '  ve  wanted  to  hear  about  this  book  —  since  you  told  me  you 
had  your  'line'  straight  at  last.  See  how  I  remember.  .  .  . 
Don't  you  mean  to  give  me  any  idea  what  the  story's  to  be 
about?" 

The  young  man's  heart  seemed  to  move  a  little  within 
him. 

"  Can  you  imagine  a  writer's  turning  away  from  an  opening 
like  that?" 

"Well  —  but  when  will  you?" 

"It's  a  long  story.  I  don't  think  I  could  make  it  all  clear 
in  five  or  seven  minutes  —  and  that 's  all  the  time  you  have 
to  spare  nowadays." 

"  Do  I  seem  as  bad  as  that?  .  .  .  But  I  know  literally  noth 
ing  about  it  yet,  you  see,  except  what  I've  just  extracted. 
Idleness  is  bad  for  able-bodied  persons,  including  women. 
Does  that  state  your  point  of  view  —  approximately?  " 

"Precisely." 

"And  how  are  you  developing  it  this  time?  I  mean  —  with 
a  working-woman  as  your  central  figure?" 

"  No  —  principally  with  a  woman  who  has  nothing  to  do 
—  and  reacts  accordingly." 

"Oh!  ...  That's  what  you  mean  by  a  difference  of  ap 
proach,  I  suppose?  She's  married?" 

"No  — that's  the  trouble." 

366 


Angela's    Business 


"  You  are  dreadfully  mysterious.   How  does  she  react?" 

"Of  course,  she  marries." 

"Then  it's  not  a  story  of  work  at  all?" 

"Hardly  at  all.   It's  an  old-fashioned  romance." 

"I  see  —  told  from  a  new-fashioned  point  of  view?" 

Charles  laughed.  "The  description  was  suggested  to  me  — 
very  recently.  Up  to  a  point,  it  fits.  You  see,  I  'm  still  learn 
ing." 

"You  know,"  said  Mary,  after  a  step  or  two,  "you  like 
to  picture  yourself  as  one  who  can't  be  restrained  from  talk 
ing  about  himself  and  his  work,  on  the  smallest  provocation. 
In  reality  .  .  .  Tell  me  honestly,  do  you  object  to  being  cross- 
examined  this  way?  " 

His  gaze  kept  straight  ahead. 

"By  you?  —  oh,  no.  Of  course,  I ...  I've  wanted  to  tell 
you  my  story  some  day." 

"Then  I'll  continue  my  quiz  now.  I  know  it's  usually 
a  stupid  question  to  ask  —  but  have  you  decided  on  a  title 
yet?" 

But  that  happened  to  be  the  one  thing  he  did  not  care  to 
tell  her  now. 

"You  can't  fix  the  title  till  you're  done,  you  know,"  he 
evaded  lightly.  "A  story  changes  so.  But  I  have  a  sub-title 
in  mind  .  .  ." 

She  asked  if  his  sub-title  was  a  secret,  and  he  said  no. 

" I 'd  thought  of  —  'A  Comedy  of  Temporary  Spinsters '  — 
something  like  that,"  said  the  author,  and,  unseen,  colored 
abruptly. 

"That's  good!"  Mary  exclaimed  after  a  moment.  "It  sug 
gests  —  so  much!  Temporary  Spinsters.  .  .  .  Only  —  I  hope 
you  don't  mean  to  be  cruel  to  your  heroine?  " 

"Oh,  no." 

367 


Angela's    Business 


They  turned  into  Olive  Street. 

"And  by  the  way,"  said  Charles,  "she's  not  my  heroine 
—  only  my  central  figure." 

" Oh!  Is  there  a  distinction?  Then  will  there  be  two  women 
in  this  book?" 

"  Of  course  —  a  common  principle  of  writing.  Your  central 
figure  —  in  a  character  story  —  needs  the  comment  of  con 
trast,  you  know  —  of  a  —  a  foil." 

"I  hadn't  thought  of  that.  You  had  only  one  woman 
in  'Bondwomen,'  you  see.  .  .  .  And  the  contrast  —  she'll  be 
as  different  as  possible  —  a  working- woman,  I  suppose?  — 
a  Permanent  Spinster!  That's  interesting,  I  think  —  a  study 
in  contrasting  types.  Now  —  by  my  catechism  —  I  really 
begin  to  get  an  idea  — " 

"Do  you?  I  don't  know.  There  are  points  —  there  are 
points  —  which  I've  never  been  able  to  settle  yet,  my 
self." 

Mary  began  to  search  for  her  latch-key.  Splendidly  com 
petent  though  she  was,  she  did  not  appear  to  have  a  regular 
•.  place  for  keeping  her  key,  like  a  man.  And  Charles  wondered 
if  she  had  quite  forgotten  that  offhand  remark  of  his,  the  day 
of  his  luncheon  to  Helen  Carson,  that  he  was  drawing  his 
Line  from  his  life.  .  .  . 

"But  the  men  in  the  story,"  she  was  saying  —  rather  me 
chanically,  he  thought — "I  conclude  there  must  be  some, 
even  though  you  don't  mention  them.  What  type  do  you 
make  your  hero?  " 

"Oh!  — hero!  There  is  n't  any.  The  hero's  the  reader." 

"The  reader!  —  I  fear  that's  too  technical  for  me." 

He  explained:  "My  —  my  study  develops  by  the  method 
of '  progressive  revelation,'  so-called  —  the  principal  characters 
being  first  set  out,  of  course,  with  the  wrong  labels  carefully 

368 


Angela's    Business 


pinned  on  them.  Well,  the  hero's  just  the  commentator  on 
this  development  as  it  takes  place,  thinking  it  out  to  save 
the  reader  the  trouble." 

"  But  —  is  n't  it  the  theory  nowadays  that  there  should  n't 
be  any  commentator?  " 

"Oh,  there  maybe  a  theory!"  he  retorted, the  artist  briefly 
flashing  in  the  man.  "However,  /  comment." 

They  went  up  the  Wings'  three  steps,  and  Mary  put  her 
key  into  the  lock. 

"But  your  hero  can't  be  altogether  an  abstraction,"  she 
insisted,  thus  engaged  —  "  else  how  can  there  be  any  old- 
fashioned  romance?  " 

The  young  man's  laugh  covered  an  interest  in  the  conversa 
tion  intense  to  the  point  of  physical  pain. 

"  Really,  this  won't  do.  We  get  it  more  and  more  back 
wards.  I  have  n't  even  described  the  story  to  you  right.  It's 
not  an  old-fashioned  anything  —  primarily  —  it's  not  a 
study  of  types.  No,  it's  —  it's  an  intellectual  autobiography. 
Do  you  work  on  Sundays?" 

The  school-teacher  wheeled  in  her  open  but  inhospitable 
door,  with  something  like  reproach  in  her  eyes,  and  said: 
"No!" 

"Then  you  can't  escape  me.  I'll  stay  in  town  this  Sunday, 
and  you  shall  hear  it  all  from  the  beginning.  You  —  you  've 
brought  it  on  yourself  now." 

The  two  moderns  looked  at  each  other.  And  the  young 
man  in  the  tall  hat  was  breathing  rather  hard. 

"But  —  would  n't  that  disappoint  your  mother?  I  know 
—  I've  noticed  —  that  you  never  let  anything  interfere  .  .  ." 

His  look  changed  perceptibly  at  that.  And  still,  it  was 
not  the  son,  not  the  old  critic  of  Egoettes,  who  answered, 
slightly  chagrined:  — 

369 


Angela's    Business 


"What  time  have  you  to  give  me,  then?  Some  day  in  the 
summer  vacation?" 

Mary  Wing's  eyes  fell  to  her  hand  on  the  door-knob.  "I 
hoped,"  she  said,  "that  you  would  come  in  now." 

"  But  your  —  your  work?  " 

"I  —  thought  I  would  take  a  holiday  to-day." 

So  they  went  into  the  house.  And  Charles  stood  alone  in 
the  Wings'  silent  hall,  slowly  pulling  off  his  wedding-gloves. 

In  the  sitting-room  Mary  was  similarly  occupied.  Though 
she  was  going  back  to  the  Flowers'  so  soon,  she  took  off  her 
hat.  Having  done  so,  she  stood  before  the  mantel-mirror,  fluff 
ing  up  her  hair  a  little,  where  the  hat  had  pressed  it  down. 
It  is  the  immemorial  fashion  of  women:  a  characteristic  posi 
tion,  and  so  an  engaging  one.  Delicately  the  upraised  arms 
denned  the  lines  of  a  graceful  figure. 

But  when  Mary  saw  in  the  mirror  that  Charles  Garrott 
had  come  into  the  room,  and  had  stopped  short  just  over 
the  threshold,  looking  at  her,  she  knew  only  that  the  moment 
had  come  when  she  must  make  acknowledgments  due  for  good 
aid  and  comfort  received.  And  in  her,  the  strong,  nervous 
ness  spread  now  like  a  fear. 

So  she  plunged  hastily,  the  moment  their  eyes  met:  "I  know, 
of  course,  there  is  n't  time  to  tell  me  about  it  now.  But  — I 
don't  seem  to  get  any  picture  of  your  —  your  man  at  all.  .  .  . 
What  sort  of  man  is  he,  personally?" 

The  author,  starting  a  little,  moved  forward  in  the  dusky 
room. 

"Oh,  let's  not  speak  of  him,"  he  said,  with  visible  effort. 
"He's  only  a  writer.  That's  polite  for  a  poor  stick." 

"No- — don't!  Tell  me  —  in  the  action  of  the  story  — 
what  does  he  do?" 

"Not  a  thing  —  really.    Just  sits  around  and  thinks." 

370 


Angela's    Business 


Strength  came  into  her  low  voice:  "Why  —  why  do  you 
always  belittle  him  so?  " 

Continuing  to  look  at  her,  he  said,  remotely  surprised: 
"Belittle  him?  But  I  don't." 

The  school-teacher's  fingers  closed  over  the  mantel,  and 
the  tips  of  her  nails  whitened. 

"Then  I  don't  understand  at  all,"  she  said,  steadily.  "I've 
been  thinking  that  it  was  he  who  almost  murdered  the  villain, 
and  gave  one  of  the  Spinsters  her  old  place  back.  ..." 

Charles  Garrott  stood  like  a  man  turned  to  stone,  fascinated 
gaze  upon  the  eyes  in  the  mirror:  girlish  eyes,  doubtless,  but 
quite  unwavering  now.  And  then,  in  an  instant,  his  face  was 
scarlet  from  neck  to  brow.  His  embarrassment  was  fright 
ful  to  see:  that  of  a  soul  too  suddenly  stripped  bare. 

"Oh!  ...  So  you've  been  looking  through  me  —  all  along. 
I  see  ...  the  Judge  did  n't  confine  himself  to  ...  Well,  his 
knowing  —  was  purely  an  accident.  He  had,  of  course,  no — " 

"And  why  must  my  knowing  be  an  accident,  too?" 

"I  —  it  was  simply  something  you  had  nothing  whatever 
to  do  with.  And  there  was  an  understanding  —  the  —  the 
matter  was  entirely  private.  You  '11  please  forget  the  Judge's 
—  small- talk,  and—" 

"Not  if  I  live  to  be  a  thousand!  I'll  forget  everything  — 
I'll  forget  my  name!  —  but  that!  —  no,  you  ask  too  much  of 
my  feelings." 

That,  indeed,  checked  the  young  man's  horrible  self- 
consciousness.  He  saw,  with  unsteadying  bewilderment,  that 
this  was  no  light  conversation  of  hers,  that  Mary  Wing  was 
more  deeply  moved  than  he  had  ever  seen  her.  And  sud 
denly  he  was  aware,  by  some  swift  flicker  of  his  intuition, 
that  it  was  to  say  this  to  him,  and  nothing  else,  that  she 
had  come  home,  made  a  holiday,  to-day.  .  .  . 


Angela's    Business 


"And  you  told  me  you  had  done  nothing  for  me,"  she  said, 
in  the  same  passionate  low  voice  —  "that  day  —  when  you 
had  just  done  everything  —  what  nobody  else  in  the  wide 
world  would  ever  have  done  for  me!  And  you  were  —  hurt, 
too  .  .  ." 

She  stopped,  abruptly.  Her  face  quivered,  just  perceptibly, 
but  he  saw  it.  Strange  and  incalculable.  .  .  .  Surely  he  had 
tried  to  do  bigger  and  better  things  for  Mary,  than  the  im 
promptu  display  of  his  primitive  passion.  .  .  .  Was  this,  also, 
of  the  primal  and  everlasting;  did  this,  too,  touch  the  immuta 
ble  and  true? 

The  helper  was  making  reply,  not  exactly  with  insouciance: 
"Why!  —  why,  but  I  can't  let  you  think  of  it  —  it  was 
nothing!  I  enjoyed  it !  I  simply  did  n't  think  he  had  behaved 
to  you  as  he  should.  Naturally,  I  did  n't  like  that .  .  ." 

"  You  did  n't  —  because  that 's  the  way  you  are.  You  ex 
pect  nothing  —  but  give  everything.  I  don't  like  to  hear  you 
make  light  of  yourself.  I  don't." 

She  turned  away,  went  over  to  her  desk  by  the  window, 
where  the  school  examination-books  awaited  her.  But  once 
more  it  was  clear  that  she  had  no  purpose  here.  She  moved 
the  piled  books  on  the  desk-leaf,  half  an  inch,  perhaps,  and 
went  on  in  a  controlled  voice:  — 

"But  I  can't  tell  you  how  I  felt,  and  feel,  about  it.  And 
it 's  foolish  to  —  try  to  say  thank  you.  We  must  talk  of  some 
thing  else.  ...  Sit  down,  won't  you?  I'll  give  you  some  light 
in  a  minute." 

But  the  young  man  in  the  wedding  raiment  did  not  sit 
down,  gave  no  sign  at  all  that  he  had  heard  her  conclusive  and 
hortatory  speech.  His  eyes,  turning,  had  followed  her  as  she 
went  away  from  him.  And  now,  as  she  ended,  he  only  stood 
and  looked;  looked  over  the  familiar  room  at  the  slender  figure 

372 


Angela's    Business 


of  a  woman  which,  all  so  suddenly,  had  shot  up  to  fill  the 
world  for  him. 

Fading  light  from  the  Green  Park  just  touched  Mary's  face, 
where  she  stood.  She  was  a  school-teacher,  thirty  years  old. 
Life  had  buffeted  her:  hard  contacts  with  the  real  world  had 
left  upon  her  their  permanent  marks,  traced  lines  not  to  be 
eradicated  beside  these  fine  eyes.  This  woman's  first  youth, 
her  April  bloom,  was  gone  forever.  But  to  this  man  on  the 
hearthside,  her  presence,  her  nearness,  were  charged  now  with 
an  intense  power  over  depths  in  him  which  would  stir  to  no 
fleshly  prettiness. 

He  had  her  secret  now.  He  knew  her,  a  Woman  re 
vealed.  And,  standing  and  looking  at  her  over  the  dark 
ening  room,  he  was  mysteriously  shaken  with  a  profound 
emotion. 

This  was  his  best  old  friend,  this  was  the  being  he  admired 
most  upon  earth.  She  was  his  dearest  comrade,  his  work-fel 
low  and  his  playmate,  his  human  free  and  equal.  She  had  a 
mind  as  good  as  his,  a  spirit  whose  integrity  he  respected  no 
less  than  his  own;  hands  that  were  capable  and  feet  that  she 
stood  upon,  and  did  not  depend.  She  had  an  honor  that  was 
not  woman's  honor,  a  virtue  and  character  that  had  no  part 
with  the  business  of  sex.  There  was  no  competence  a  man  had 
that  this  woman  did  not  have :  she  was  as  versatile  and  thought 
ful  and  fearless  and  free  as  the  best  of  them.  And,  through 
and  beyond  all  this,  there  was  the  discovered  marvel,  that  she 
had  tilled  and  kept  sweet  the  garden  of  her  womanhood.  Un 
derlying  her  rich  human  worthiness,  as  the  mothering  earth 
lies  under  a  tree,  there  was  the  treasure  he  had  hardly  glimpsed, 
this  store  of  her  secret  tenderness. 

So  it  was  that  Charles  Garrott  spoke  up  suddenly,  with  a 
kind  of  huskiness:  — 

373 


Angela's    Business 


"No,  there's  only  one  thing  to  talk  of  now.  You  will  have 
to  hear  my  story." 

The  grammar-school  teacher  did  not  move.  The  twilit 
sitting-room  was  stiller  than  a  church.  The  young  man  went 
toward  her  on  feet  not  now  to  be  stopped. 

"But  not  from  the  beginning  —  no.  That  does  n't  matter. 
It's  the  ending  —  I  have  waited  to  talk  with  you  about." 

He  stood  now  by  the  hard-worked  little  desk,  an  elbow 
rested  on  the  top;  he  looked  down  at  the  bent  familiar  head, 
the  thick  crown  of  feminine  fair  hair.  Just  so,  he  had  stood 
and  looked  on  that  other  day,  when  she  had  written  upon 
his  heart  what  freedom  meant  to  her. 

"I  wanted  to  show  how  one  man  —  got  his  education  in 
womanhood  —  learned  how  strength  is  stronger  for  being 
sweet  —  just  by  coming  to  see  and  understand  the  moral 
beauty  of  one  woman's  life.  .  .  .  That  is  my  story.  But  it 
is  n't  enough  to  end  with." 

Some  of  his  dignity,  some  of  his  self-control,  seemed  ab 
ruptly  to  forsake  the  hard-pressed  young  man. 

"You  are  that  woman,"  he  said,  hoarsely.  "You've  edu 
cated  me.  But  it  is  n't  enough." 

She,  his  only  heroine,  raised  her  head,  gave  him  one  look 
from  under  her  arched  brows;  a  strange  look,  that  might 
have  said  good-bye  to  the  perfect  friendship  he  had  forever 
changed  now.  And  he  saw  in  the  dusk  that  her  face  was  very 
pale. 

"You've  supposed  I  want  nothing  for  myself.  I  am  here 
asking  for  everything  ..." 

Her  lashes  fell.  He  was  so  close  to  her  now  that,  just  by 
putting  out  his  arm  a  little,  he  could  have  taken  one  of  the 
small  hands  on  the  desk-leaf.  So  he  did  put  out  his  arm 
thus.  Her  hand,  possessed,  was  cold  as  ice;  but  it  was  not 

374 


Angela's    Business 


withdrawn.    No,  Mary's  hand  seemed  to  stay  and  cling,  like 

a  hand  come  Home. 

And  now  he  heard  her  voice,  as  tender  as  a  mother's:  — 
"  Ah,  have  I  anything  to  give,  do  you  think  —  that  has  n't 

been  given?   What  sort  of  ending  do  you  want?  " 

So  Charles  told  her  then  what  sort  of  ending  he  wanted. 

And  that,  and  no  other,  was  the  sort  of  ending  he  had. 


THE   END 


CAMBRIDGE  .  MASSACHUSETTS 
U    .    S    .   A 


;tt_2_ei835 

nFle  »94 
^^ 


LD 


YB  32884 


. 


UNIVERSITY  OF  CALIFORNIA  LIBRARY 


